


Whumptober 2019: Good Omens

by MostFacinorous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandonment, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol, Angels, Angst, Biblical events, Blasphemy, Delirium, Demons, Explosions, Fear, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Mr. Blobby - Freeform, Other, Religious Content, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Sacrifice, Serious Injuries, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-04 04:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 37,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: The thirty-one days of Whumptober, even if they may have strayed more into Angstober for about half of them. Mind the tags, though I'd like to think everything has a hopeful to happy ending.These stories are not chronological, though the stories take place in the same timeline and will reference previous chapters from time to time.Originally posted on my tumblr: https://mostfacinorous.tumblr.com/





	1. Shaky Hands

It wasn’t easy, wanting to help.  
Or, more accurately, wanting anything wasn’t easy, doing something about it was much harder. And doing something good, that was the worst of all.   
  
He figured this was a side effect of his demonic makeup. Sometimes when he did good things– or sometimes, when he got too close to the angel, who was a good thing, and also a good thing he wanted to do– he would develop tremors.  
  
Too much goodness, he figured. 

Too far from the wickedness he was meant to be doing. Too close to Grace.

Like now, when he had to fight to keep his shaking hands from doing any damage, as he tried to straighten the soiled and mussed feathers of the angel’s wings.   
“Can’t believe you got used as bait.” He grumbled, hating that God was back on Her shit, testing the humans when She knew the outcome and punishing them for having let Her down.  
“First big assignment since the wall, and you’re _bait_.” 

Crowley hadn’t thought before this that it was possible to be any angrier at God, or any more bitter about Her choices, and yet here they were.

“At least She assigned me a partner, this time.” Aziraphale pointed out, his tone mild and casual, as if he hadn’t just nearly been torn apart by humans, if not for _one_ good man. 

“Oh yeah, sure. Send in you, all sweet and appealing, and that lout. He’s not really their type, if you get my drift, and he’s not much protection for you either. And where is Sandalphon now?” Crowley asked, scoffing. “Some partner. Too busy smiting to worry about you and your wellbeing. So much for your heavenly brotherhood.” 

“It’s his role to play in the Plan.” Aziraphale answered, though he sounded small. Crowley hated that he’d done that– made him feel worse after– well, after all that. And yet off went his mouth, still going.  
“And those humans down there– completely irredeemable, I suppose? Couldn’t have scared them into behaving, maybe taught them the idea of enthusiastic consent, instead of roasting them alive?” 

Aziraphale didn’t answer, and Crowley had to take his hands away, they were shaking so badly.

“You wouldn’t have just been discorporated!” The words were all but forced out of him by the tightness in his chest, and he breathed to try and swallow the nausea as he pressed his palms to the cool soil of the mountain path that they were sitting on.  
They’d moved to the far side of the mountain, so they didn’t have to look at the flames and the smoke that arose from what had once been Sodom.  
Thank goodness that the screams, finally, had all but died down.

“I know. Thank you– for stepping in when you did.” Aziraphale was perfectly earnest and still sounded sad and scared, and Crowley had to get hold of himself, before he did any further damage.The ground helped to steady the shakes, and having Aziraphale’s back to him helped to let him speak evenly still. 

“Next time they ask you to do something like this– tell me first.”   
He returned his hands to Aziraphale’s feathers, and began sorting through them again, straightening them and getting rid of as much ash and dirt from the white feathers as he could. It was a losing battle, without a bath and oils and proper tools, and they both knew it. But, he thought, they both needed this time to silently digest the horror of what had just happened.   
What would have happened, if Crowley hadn’t been there. 

“I will, Crowley. I promise. And– truly, thank you.”  
Aziraphale’s earnestness was setting his stomach off all over again. That had to be the explanation for the way his stomach flipped under the warmth in those words.

“Just passing through. Remember, though- you blinded them all, to make your escape. Don’t forget to include it in your paperwork.” Crowley’s hand shook still when he offered it to help Aziraphale up off the ground. 

“Of course, I’ll remember. Now, I suppose I owe you at the very least a drink– I understand there’s a room open at the inn a few towns over. I hope you don’t mind– I’m not much in the mood for drinking in public tonight.”   
Aziraphale was putting on a brave front, Crowley could tell, but it seemed they were both trying to keep themselves together. And they could do that together.  
He resolved not to leave him alone until he was absolutely certain Aziraphale was more himself. 

“Several drinks, I think. And then you should probably order a bath, make yourself look presentable again.”   
He’d be glad to get this whole awful business far in their dust. And maybe, with a bit of alcohol in their systems, he’d finally be able to put this good deed behind him, and things would go back to normal.   
Even though his hands didn’t feel quite so shaky anymore. Rather, they tingled from the memory of what it felt like, touching Aziraphale’s wings. He tried to put that out of his mind, though. He hadn’t had the opportunity before now, and it had been for comfort, and if he had his way, he’d never need to comfort the angel again.   
  
He wished, though, that he had other reasons to reach out– to touch.


	2. Explosion

They were no strangers, by now, to near misses. It was almost a calling card for the two of them, in fact– but for the most part, it was because things around them had spun out of control. Not because of something either of them had done directly. 

Not for a while at least. 

Until now. 

And of course, it hadn’t been on purpose– there’d just been a sort of… blurring. 

They were drunk, which was how nights ended whenever they bumped into one another. And especially now– it was April, and Aziraphale had been working with the flock of St. Andrews to improve morale for just over a week. 

Crowley, on the other hand, had introduced a new soap which promoted pimples. 

Things were coming along swimmingly, and they were drinking in the small apartment that Crowley had been borrowing on Fetter Lane– Borrowing, of course, here meaning ‘occupying while its owners were out of town spending some of the fabulous inheritance that had just fallen into their laps, as if by miracle.’

The two of them had been sure to drop in on one another from time to time ever since The Agreement had been struck up, and that was, in honesty, why Crowley was here. There wasn’t much else to do at the moment. 1583 was a time of simple pleasures, and there was none as popular as drinking with a– friend? He supposed they were friends.

Anyway, none as popular as that unless you counted massive amounts of seduction and fornication, which he did, and was absolutely thinking about– though he tried not to, as he assumed Aziraphale could tell. 

Or, at least, he probably could were he slightly less pissed. 

The beer they’d bought had been miraculously turned into something stronger and far better, though he’d be blessed if he could remember what, and Aziraphale, usually so uptight and poised, seemed to be holding himself in his seat only by the hands he’d clasped around his waist. 

“D’you ever think abou– y’know, the things humans do– is there heaven equ-eqi- versions?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asked. “Wha’ d’ya mean? Like– dancing? No, no dancin’ in heaven.” He looked unduly put out about that, and Crowley made mental note to remember that– though a moment later he forgot what it was he was meant to be remembering, when Aziraphale licked his lips, and the lamplight caught the moisture from his tongue and made it look like a dessert. Like his lips were honey glazed, and for all that Crowley rarely ate when he wasn’t around the angel, he found himself suddenly _famished_. 

“Nooo, no, no, I mean– well, we’ve bodies here, c’n do anything humans can, yeah, old hat, but with _no bodies_, y’see? ‘S there heaven versions of things humans do with their bodies?” He tried to wiggle his eyebrows, but was stricken with a sudden fear that he’d forgotten how those muscles worked, and they were just dancing around instead of looking suggestive at all. 

“We’ve got food up there now– jus’ th’ one though, mana, tastes like sunshine always– _dreadful_ boring stuff–”

“Urk.” Crowley agreed. “But wha-whaddabout _other_ pleasures of th’flesh? The uh, the fleshy ones.”

He did a gesture that was meant to be holding onto hips and thrusting, but given his current situation of being semi-prone, it looked more like he’d tried and failed to sit up.

Aziraphale seemed to understand just the same.

“Oh, I say!” he did say, his rum-ruddy cheeks going a fetching shade or three pinker. “Well, lust– lust is a sin, you know but, there’s a– a _holy joining_ of- usually the whole host–”

This time Crowley did sit up.

“_Angelic orgies_?!” He asked, delighted and scandalized and his mind already swimming imagining Aziraphale smack in the middle of one. 

He had to be– Crowley could only imagine he’d be popular, in such high demand– he broke off the thought. 

Aziraphale was looking thoroughly uncomfortable now.

“Stop– no, stop it, it isn’t like that at all! It’s– the essences my dear boy, you see, the lights all coming together to form a grander light a– a– _hardly_ an orgy!”

“But not not an orgy.” Crowley filled in. “Have you been to one? Whassit like? Whassit feel like?” 

This felt like dangerous territory, like treading close to one of those lines he wasn’t meant to be crossing. But also… 

He wanted to hear those honey dipped lips talking about pleasure like that. Wanted it even knowing he would be torturing himself by listening. _Wanted_–

“I haven’t no. Usually only find out after– ‘M not invited t’such things.” Aziraphale looked so sad at that, and Crowley felt something in his throat tighten.

“What? _Why not_?” Who wouldn’t want Aziraphale there for that? Who wouldn’t want him, full stop?!

“‘M consider’d– you know, a bit– dirty. Tainted with humans– ‘s the food, n th’ dirt, an’ all the– you know, too close to humanity.” He looked close to tears, and Crowley couldn’t stand it. 

“Pfff. ‘S their loss then. They d’nno what they’re missin’. I bet y’r better than the whole lot of them cuz of’t.” 

Aziraphale gave him a slightly wavering smile. 

“Oh, do you think so?”

“You’d be like– a whole, whole bakery of flavors. They c’n keep their bless’t always sunshine angel orgy. I’d rather do’t with jus’ the’ one of you than all ‘f them put together ‘nyhow.”

Aziraphale, he noted, was staring at him now, looking somewhat intensely surprised, and it took a moment for his brain to catch up with his mouth. 

Which he proceeded to open, horrified and afraid he’d ruined everything. 

“Oh Crowley, _could_ we?” Aziraphale asked, and that was so far outside of the realm of anything Crowley had expected that his mouth shut again with a sharp snap. 

“Ngk.” Crowley answered, though it came out as a squawk. Still he immediately reached for Aziraphale, who paused, then shook his head. 

“No, not like that– like, like heaven.”

Crowley, whose had been in the process of shattering to pieces when Aziraphale said no, immediately did his best to reverse the process. 

“Yeah, course, anything– uh, so jus– slip out’f our bodies, then, an’–”

“And embrace.” Aziraphale murmured, his grin beautific as he stood and began to glow. 

Not to be left behind, Crowley stood as well, and began the process of uninhabiting his form. 

Felt weird, like wind going through his shirt, only he was his shirt, and then he was _everything_– and also no longer drunk. 

But Aziraphale was there, and he could feel him, even if he couldn’t pick out his edges any more. 

_I want this so much,_ he felt more than heard. _But should we? Is this bad, is it wrong?_

_It’s perfect_. He sent back, thoughts slipping out and becoming a vibration. He could feel Aziraphale shiver when it reached him, and felt him reach out. 

It took an eternity for them to come closer, to touch and then–

–No one was quite certain how it had begun, though it was of course believed to have begun in the gunpowder house on Fetter Lane. 

Somehow, miraculously, the only casualties were two men, travelers, one who was working with St. Andrews, some 150 yards away. The church itself survived with only a few broken windows, and more miraculous yet, a child who had been in the gunpowder house, minding the wares overnight, survived unscathed. 

In heaven, an angel filed a report and forms in triplicate to request a new physical body, as the last had been lost in a giant explosion in London, attempting to thwart the wicked plans of the demon Crowley, and to get his revenge for damages done to a house of God by the same. 

The body was granted and he returned to earth, landing gently across town from the site of his discorporation, whereupon he vowed to resist the temptations of alcohol, and did.

For a few months, at least.


	3. Delirium

Discorporation was never pleasant, but recorporation was– for angels, anyway.

Demons were another story. 

There were many things that the angels had not worked out yet before Crowley and his comrades had been kicked to the curb, so to speak– which meant that when they saw the angels with bodies, they were left to fumble around in the (literal) darkness and try to do the same. The process they came up with was born as much from superstition as it was from miracles– and so from dust they came, their bodies being birthed from the earth itself, and the journey to the surface not unlike having to claw your way out of a grave. 

It was tight and dark and painful, terrifying and isolated, and if you lost strength, if you gave up, you would be forgotten. No one from the surface would dig down to get you, and Hell was certainly not sending anyone else up to grab you. 

This was the first time Crowley was being recorporated as a human. It’d been easier as a snake, but he’d lost his taste for that form a while back. If he’d realized, though, he would have gone that route again. Instead, he’d been so eager to get back, to show up as himself, in case Aziraphale beat him to it–

And his mind was shattering under the weight of it. 

It felt like falling again, agony and darkness and he couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t feel anyone else. He pushed on, not knowing which way was up, which way was down, if he was going to make it at all. 

And then– then he felt it. The faintest breeze, and carried on it– that familiar distant grace.

_Aziraphale._

Just the thought of his name was enough to give him the strength to try, to fight a little further, but he reached and reached and couldn’t find the surface, and he began to lose his fight with the panic. 

Suddenly, the ground opened, and the sun shone one him, and he had to hide his eyes from its brilliance. But then the sun’s light was blocked by a head of pale gold, haloed by being backlit.

“I say, Crowley, is that you?” His angel asked, extending his hand to help pull Crowley up. 

Crowley took it and gained his feet, collapsing a moment later beside the hole from whence he’d come, and pulling Aziraphale down beside him. 

He clung to him and wept, gasping in great shuddering breaths as his skin began to heal beneath the mud that was covering him and actively ruining the angel’s fussy cream coat. 

“Sshh, shh, there now, it’s alright. I have you, it’s alright.”

“I didn’t think I was ever going to make it– that was horrible. Hell is horrible. I can’t go back there, not again, not– I can’t do that again.”

There was a warm hand on the back of his head, stroking and holding him to Aziraphale’s chest, though the position had to be horribly uncomfortable. 

“You won’t have to– I’m so sorry. That was my fault, I should have known better. We won’t try that again.”

Crowley felt more than heard the whine that got trapped in his throat, but Aziraphale just rocked him in his grasp, trying to sooth him. 

“Come on now, let’s get you cleaned up– you’re going to give someone a fright, looking like the risen dead.”

“Flatterer.” He murmured, trying to help as Aziraphale hauled him onto his feet. 

He shuddered, realizing that he was unclothed beneath the mud, probably at about the same time the angel did.

“Goodness.” He heard, and then, with a nauseating snap, they were back in the bookshop, though this time in a bathroom that Crowley had never seen before. Too big for the bookshop, and no doubt miracled into existence for this or some similar emergency. 

“D’you bring all the guys here after the morning after?” Crowley asked, though his words slurred under the weight of his exhaustion. 

“The morning af– I never! And for your information, it’s been nigh on five years. Where have you been– not in hell all this time, surely?” 

“‘S no stairs for bringing bodies up.” Crowley said, climbing into the empty tub and leaning back against the high sides of it, his adam’s apple exposed and bobbing. He distantly wondered if he ought to request one, for avoiding this in the future.

“You mean to say you literally crawled out of hell?” Aziraphale asked, aghast, and suddenly the tub was full of wonderfully warm, verging on hot water, and Crowley was laying in it, sans the muck he’d been brought there in. 

“They din’t used to call me Crawley for nothing.” His head lolled and he cracked one eye open to look at the angel, careful only to open it a little, lest the eyeful hurt, like the sun had. 

“Maybe you need a new name– fly-y, maybe.”

“I didn’t fly down, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him gently, seating himself on a stool beside the bathroom vanity. “I floated.”

“You fell.” Crowley said, opening his eyes as he realized. “But– gently. Izza why you use that name?” 

Aziraphale bristled, obviously aghast. 

“I am not fallen, not the _least bit_ like you.”

“Yeah… ‘s good.” Crowley decided, nodding. “You’d make a shit demon. Worse’n me. And anyway, I like you all holy and good an’ shit. But still– you fell. Just, to earth ‘nstead of hell.” He paused. 

“Hehehe, rhymed.” 

He opened his eyes again, not remembering when they’d closed and peered at Aziraphale’s face, hoping he was just as amused as Crowley was at his wordsmithery. 

Instead he just looked concerned. 

“I think you need some time to come back to yourself.” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley felt like the earth was squeezing down on his chest again. 

“You relax here, I’ll make some tea and then you can have a nice nap on the sofa before you pick back up with your wiling.”

“Mm, I’ll wile your nap.” Crowley answered, eyes drifting shut again, and he heard a small noise from the angel, but he didn’t have enough presence of mind left to interpret the emotions behind it. 

A nap sounded really good right now, and the bathwater was so warm. He’d just… nod off for a minute…


	4. Human Shield

Crowley had known that he hadn’t heard the last of Hell, but he knew too that he and Aziraphale had been designated off-limits. 

What neither of them had counted on was Hell trying to find other ways to hurt them. They’d gone after other things they cared about. And they hadn’t gone for the obvious; right now he wished they’d destroyed the bookshop and blown up the Bentley. 

Because instead, Hastur had his nails resting on either side of Warlock’s throat, poised and ready to rip it out, and he was staring at the two of them with such intense loathing that Crowley was afraid to so much as breathe heavily, for fear of setting him off and ending their erstwhile godson’s life. 

“Oh, he’s just a human, and a child at that– leave him be!” Aziraphale demanded from beside him, and Crowley threw a hand out towards him, warning him to be still, to be quiet. He didn’t even look away from Hastur for a moment. 

“What is it you want?” He felt like he was confronting some vicious wild animal, and knew that this was much, much worse.

“When you threatened me with holy water– you weren’t immune then, were you? The spray bottle wasn’t–” He sounded mad, and Crowley imagined this line of thought keeping him awake at night. 

He’d be smug about it, proud, glad even, once the child was free. 

“It wouldn’t have hurt me. But no, the spray bottle was plain water, unblessed.” 

He hoped Aziraphale wasn’t going to try anything stupid. He could tell he was fidgeting beside him, and for both their sakes, they needed to keep their switch a secret. 

“It was my doing. I protected him. Let the child go, and I can make you immune as well.” Aziraphale offered, and Crowley flinched. 

“Aziraphale–” he warned, knowing that the angel was bluffing and unable to stand it, with the kid’s life in the balance. 

“No, let him. Do it. I want to be immune to holy water.” Hastur spoke quickly, too eagerly, and Crowley licked his lips, thinking fast. 

“You have to let go of the kid– the angel’s grace has to wash over all of you.” 

Crowley still hadn’t looked away, hadn’t blinked, but Hastur’s eyes darted back and forth between them, looking for any sign of a double cross. 

“You try anything funny, and the three of us might be hellfire proof, but the kid sure isn’t. I’ll kill him before you can say ‘sucker’.”

“Nanny!” Warlock whimpered, and Crowley swallowed convulsively. 

“It’s going to be alright.” He told him, in his soft Scottish Nanny voice. “Brother Francis and I will do what the man wants, and you’re going to be okay.” 

In retrospect, knowing he’d been watched, he should have anticipated the danger Warlock would be in. He’d spent so long caring for him, kissing skinned knees and reading bedtime stories. He’d thought that distancing himself– distancing them both would keep him safe enough. 

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again, given the chance. 

Hastur pushed Warlock in Crowley’s direction, and he caught the boy, pushing him behind his back. 

Aziraphale did something– Crowley had no idea what, but a glow surrounded Hastur. And then it ended. 

“That’s it?” Hastur demanded, obviously suspicious.

“That’s it.” Aziraphale promised, earnest as you please and somehow a much better liar than Crowley had ever given him credit for.

“Prove it!” Hastur demanded, sounding unhinged again. 

Aziraphale nodded. Hand behind his back summoning a bucket of what must be holy water. 

“As you wish,” he said calmly, and before Crowley knew what was happening, Warlock was tackling him out of the way and putting himself between Crowley and Hastur, while Aziraphale flung the full bucket, drops splattering across the room. 

Crowley winced, expecting to feel the burn, but there was nothing, save for Hastur’s pained and horrified screams. He looked down to see Warlock, his shirt dripping down his back, and Aziraphale looking back at them.

“You used our godson as a human shield?!” Crowley protested, anxiety making him snap out and his own stress winding him up for a good rant–

Until the pillar of fire came hurtling towards them.

Time became slow and Crowley was aware of every tenth of a second that elapsed. Warlock was still sprawled over his ‘nanny’, and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to stop the hellfire, even once Hastur was halfway to puddledom. 

Crowley flung his hand out, frantically miracling Warlock at Aziraphale and following with his own body, wings out and folding around to envelope them both. 

The hellfire hit less than a moment later, but died harmlessly against Crowley’s demonic form, lapping at the edges of him. It dissipated into nothing, and for a moment Crowley felt smugly proud. 

He’d done it– take that Hastur! 

He released them and pulled away, only belatedly feeling the sting of burns from touching Warlock’s holy water soaked back. 

His shirt was smoldering, and he could see the red of scalded flesh through the holes in it.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale sounded horrified, and that pulled Crowley’s attention back to the two people in the room who mattered.

He looked between them both, nodded, satisfied that they were safe–

– and promptly passed out.


	5. Gunpoint

Aziraphale had spent the last sixty-some years being horrified at the things being done in God’s name. Again. Continually. 

But this time was so much more creative than past wars– this wasn’t armed people against armed people, with the scattered civilian casualty and ransacked town– terrible as that was.

This was a war waged from home to home, by the church and thugs hired by those in charge who were meant to be protecting the people they ruled over. 

This was public executions that were really more like torture shows. Flame in the squares and screaming that never seemed to end, the salt of tears hanging in the air beside the smoke that smelled of death, fear pulsing from every street and blood that ran into mud. 

They called themselves the Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición. 

They called themselves Catholics.

They made rules, applied checks and balances, made every effort to seem righteous– and then broke them. Lied. Tortured. Destroyed lives and families and livelihoods. 

It all made Aziraphale sick and made him feel powerless– hopeless. 

There was only so much he could do, one miracle at a time, sparing what lives he could without putting himself in danger, and feeling all the more cowardly for that. 

But he’d do no one any good discorporated and waiting to have his request for a new vessel filled. 

He had to take some comfort that, at least here, he was doing some good. 

That, and he hadn’t seen Crowley anywhere, which meant that hopefully none of this was his doing. 

If it was…

Well frankly, Aziraphale didn’t know how he would ever be able to look him in the face again if it was, let alone uphold his end of The Agreement.

Not when this might be the result. 

That said, the only thing worse than this being Crowley’s work was the possibility that it might be part of God’s plan. Aziraphale would hate to think he was somehow thwarting Her in his efforts to do good, and that uncertainty had choked him up more than once. 

He hadn’t forgotten the ark, or Sodom, or any of the other smite happy days of old. He’d really hoped they’d moved beyond such things, not that he’d ever voice such a criticism out loud. 

And so, in those days, even he was careful as he moved about the streets and went about his business. Was careful to be seen in church and turned his godliness up a good ten percent. 

And he was left, blessedly, mostly alone. 

A familiar feeling hit him one day, though, returning from a particularly good lunch. Fear, of course, and pain. 

And Crowley. 

His heart sank and he sped his steps, only hoping he wasn’t too late, though he had no idea for whom. 

There were a handful of men surrounding Crowley, who was backed against a wall in an alley. The men all wore the uniform of the Inquisition, and that was enough to stop Aziraphale in his tracks. 

“Turn back, señor. This man is a danger to society.” One of them had noticed Aziraphale and had turned a bit to speak to him, allowing him to see that Crowley was held in place at gunpoint, and what was more, had been shot already.

His arm was smoking from between his fingers, and Aziraphale’s heart sank further. 

What kind of madmen blessed their bullets?

“What is his crime?” Aziraphale asked, miracling himself confidence and an air of authority that the men seemed immediately to respect. 

“He is accused of passing counterfeit currency, seducing men and women, theft, harbouring other dangerous and illegal individuals, and blasphemy and heresy. We have proof enough to satisfy any trial, and he is guilty enough to be burned.”

“And why is he shot?” Aziraphale demanded, well aware that these men were not supposed to spill blood. 

“He attempted to flee, and then to fight. He has been injured in defense of the inquisitors’ wellbeing.” 

Of course. Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes, wide and scared from what he could see through the darkened lenses. 

“Look how it smokes– he should be killed now, before his unholiness can spread.” One of the other inquisitors murmured, captivated and horrified and younger than the rest. 

“The trial may be difficult, given we have spilled his blood. Perhaps we kill him now, to save the trouble, and none will know it was us.” Another offered, and all their eyes slowly turned to rest on Aziraphale, who, despite his miracled authority, now threatened their plan. 

“Kill them both.” The apparent leader decided. “We will make it seem they killed one another, and then were robbed.” 

Aziraphale tried to speak, but found himself staring down a pistol instead, as he was marched backwards to stand beside Crowley. 

“Well, not my favorite way to run into you,” Crowley said, words roughened by pain. 

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“I assume you couldn’t stop the bullet because it was blessed. If I do that, can you get them or us out of here?” He knew his voice was higher than he’d like, but he felt it was justified, given the stress he was under. 

“Gladly,” Crowley confirmed, and Aziraphale gave him a small smile of gratitude. 

“What is so funny?” One of the men demanded, stepping forward to press his pistol to Aziraphale’s head. 

He closed his eyes, concentrating for the ability to slow things down, to stop the bullet before it left the gun. 

Another man stepped up and aimed at Crowley from close, but not so immediately close as Aziraphale’s executioner. 

“On three.” Commanded the leader.

“One– two–”

Aziraphale caught the blessed bullets with his will and God’s grace, and Crowley moved them away, so that they landed, still too close to one another, in the room in the inn that Crowley had taken out. 

After a moment of letting their ears stop ringing from the shots, Crowley held his arm out.

“Would you mind?” He asked, and Aziraphale pulled the bullet out of the wound, allowing Crowley to heal it up. 

“I think,” Aziraphale said quietly, “I should like to go back to England in the very near future.”

“You and me both, angel.” Crowley murmured, fingering the bloody hole in his shirtsleeve and the still bright red skin where the hole in his arm from the holy bullet had been. “In the meantime– wine?”


	6. Dragged Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry is a continuation of the story from the 4th.  
It will be continued on the 12th.

After Hastur had come up and been summarily melted down, there was a period of quiet that they both had rather hoped would stick, this time. 

But of course, as was always the case on earth, nothing good lasted. 

Crowley had been fine, ultimately, treating the Holy water contact the way one would treat having been scalded by boiling water. It faded and healed, and he was very smug and self satisfied with his heroics, not that Aziraphale blamed him for it in the least.

They spent a few days talking with Warlock, explaining things and helping him to understand, as well as extracting from him a promise that he wouldn’t tell a soul, and would be kinder to his mother. He did promise, though privately Aziraphale knew that one of those would be easier to keep than the other for a boy of that age. 

Still, their godson was growing, and, in spite of his rocky home situation and their uneven at best tactics in raising him, he was a little less angry and hurt, knowing why they’d had to leave. Perhaps things would get better for him, after this.

Warlock’s impromptu visit had to come to an end, and he had to return to his mother, who cast suspicious and accusatory glares at Aziraphale until Crowley had come out dressed as Nanny Ashtoreth to reassure her that it was no trouble, really, and they’d missed the boy as well. 

And hadn’t that been odd– the blending of Aziraphale’s Ezra Fell identity and that of Brother Francis. He supposed Harriet must think he’d had rather a lot of work done, but… at least it meant she was no longer quite so suspicious of why Warlock had come here of all places. 

They’d waved them off with a promise to visit, now they’d been reunited, and that was that on that front. Crowley had grown tired of skirts again after a week or two, and things had slowly settled into what counted, to them, as normal.

The summer turned colder and significantly wetter, and it seemed Hell just could not leave well enough alone. 

Aziraphale came back from a fairly routine shopping trip– the woman at Tesco marveling at how clear his complexion remained despite his apparent diet of cocoa and biscuits– but he was greeted inside the door of his shop by Crowley, being held by multiple replicas of the same demon, and flanked by Beelzebub and Dagon– whom Aziraphale recognized, but only through the haze of fear he felt. 

“What is this?” He demanded, stepping into a fighting stance, and readying himself to do his best against this many demons.

“Aziraphale, you are no longer under Heaven’s protection. You are charged with the murder of Hastur, one of the Dukes of Hell.” Beelzebub intoned, voice flat other than the undercurrent droning of insects buzzing. 

“You are subject now to be tried for your crimes in the court of Hell. So to answer your question– this is a summons.” Dagon added. 

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“I think there’s some mistake– it was self defense, and in defense of Crowley, who was being attacked, and is supposed to have been protected from such things–” 

“Save your defense for the trial.” Beelzebub answered, and Aziraphale nodded, dumbly, before realizing what he was doing and stopping. 

“No! I’m not going to hell. I can’t– it will, it’d destroy me, wouldn’t it?” He looked, panicked, towards Crowley, who was actively fighting to break free of the hands of the demons who were holding him. There were, Aziraphale noted, significantly more of them than there had been before. Enough now to overwhelm Crowley, which he supposed was rather the point. 

He steeled himself and turned his eyes back on Crowley’s ex-bosses. 

“Unhand him and leave my shop, or I swear to you, it will rain Holy Water indoors.” 

It was a bluff, of course, because Crowley was there, but they didn’t know that he was still vulnerable to such things. 

“This is happening because you destroyed a higher up of Hell.” Dagon growled. “If you harm us, do you suppose it will not escalate? Do you think that Satan himself is so vulnerable, or that he would be as reasonable as we are? Come stand trial. Or Crowley will be forced to take the blame for this whole tragic affair.”

Crowley turned quickly into a snake, slithered free of his guards, and cried out 

“Yesss!” even as he returned to his default shape. Dagon cast a withering glare at the legion of demons, and they returned, shamefaced, to being a single entity. 

“Let me go,” Crowley pressed on, and Aziraphale opened his mouth to object, but was cut off. “Really angel, what will they do? Dunk me in more holy water?” 

“Everyone knows how Hastur felt about you Crowley– no doubt this was a long planned act of revenge. And after what you did to Ligur, well– that’s a pattern. A dangerous one. I don’t think anyone in Hell is willing to let such a threat continue to walk on any realm.” Beelzebub warned. 

“We are in the difficult position of needing to make someone answer for this crime. If you come to trial and are found guilty, we will have to get creative about destroying you. If Aziraphale comes, it will be easier. He’ll be found guilty, we’ll give him a bit of good old fashioned torture, and then he’ll be free to go back to–” Beelzebub looked around disdainfully. “All of this.” 

It sounded dismissive, and Aziraphale felt himself blanching. 

Torture. Him.

Or Crowley’s utter destruction. 

“I’ll stand trial.” He said quietly, and found himself suddenly unable to look Crowley in the face. 

The multiplying demon leapt to action, quickly recapturing and gagging Crowley, who had resumed his fight, thrashing now more wildly than before. 

“Good answer.” Dagon said, giving Aziraphale a slimy grin. 

“You’ll have to forgive us.” Beelzebub said. “There’s something of a tradition, you see.” 

With that, a hole opened in the shop floor, and Aziraphale found himself held over it by his lapels. 

“Oh– not my books–” he managed, and Dagon rolled their eyes. 

“You have bigger concerns.” Beelzebub reminded him, and, as he was suddenly caught up from below by dozens of hot, stinging, clawing hands, he would have to agree. 

“Shit.” He managed, pithily, and then the last thing he saw was Crowley, glasses askew and eyes wide and horrified, reaching out towards him before he was dragged, quite literally, to Hell.


	7. Isolation

It had been a single question, a single syllable, and he was immediately jerked out of the life he knew as he understood it. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what would come of him– he’d been practically quarantined, as though he had some horrible disease that might then spread to the rest of the heavenly host. 

Curiosity, he supposed the disease might be called. Or, if he was feeling in the mood to be amusing, maybe ‘why-itis’. 

And he had little other choice, here. 

He’d been sent into space while they tried to decide what to do with him. And by space, they meant an endlessly stretching inky blackness. A void. 

Nothingness. 

It got so that he no longer knew which way was up, or down. He’d instead focused on himself, and entertained himself that way– fashioning his features and his form into a thousand different configurations. Which was at least something to do, for a bit, even though he couldn’t really see much of it. 

He did decide he liked being a he, though– it fit in his mind the way his name fit in his mouth. Just felt right. Likewise his hair, long short, straight, curling, in gentle waves or long spirals, greasy or frizzy or streaming out behind him as he moved through the nothing– he liked it red. 

Which, as a concept, didn’t really exist yet. But the color– another concept that he invented– needed a name. And they would be renamed a hundred thousand times throughout history. He didn’t really need to say it, and so assigned no sound to the concept. It was just a foggy thing, floating out there in space. His thoughts were like clouds in the void inside his own mind. 

But he did still have his miracles, still had access to his grace. 

He had no idea how long he’d been out in space before he decided to try and do something o his surroundings, instead of just to himself.

And so the first thing he made was a cloud– like his thoughts, shifting and diaphanous, but outside of himself. And red, like his hair. 

But it was hard to see, and besides, he worried that it might be lonely, out in space with nothing but him for company. 

So he created a spot of light to shine on it. 

And the bit of the cloud that was illuminated was glorious– beautiful enough to make him forget, for a time, that he was so utterly alone. 

He made another dot of light, to shine on it from another angle, then several dozen more. 

He dipped his finger in the cloud and swirled it around, pulling the darkness into it and dragging it out to lighten up more of space. 

And then he branched out. Planets, moons, stars in special shapes. He told himself stories while he worked, and imagined himself to be friends with the people in those tales. He spoke, sometimes, not really to anyone or anything in particular, but out of fear that if he didn’t, he would forget how. 

He’d never been introduced to the concept of need, before now. He didn’t need air, or food, or sleep. In theory, he should want for nothing. 

But he missed the closeness, and the sound of voices. 

Any sound for that matter- at times the silence pressed in on him the way the darkness had, and he felt as if he would surely die of it. 

Not that he understood that concept, either. 

The closest he could come was to describe the feeling as a black hole inside of him, sucking at light and stars, eating them whole, and trying, as much as it could, to fill itself somehow. But he couldn’t create within himself, couldn’t fill that need on his own. 

And so he floated, keeping busy to keep himself sane, though how he knew insanity existed, he wasn’t sure. 

Maybe he would have said he could feel it pushing down on him, not in a physical way, but from another place inside of him. 

A different kind of darkness. 

And when Heaven called him back, he clung immediately to the first angels to speak with him, afraid to let them leave him be again, almost afraid that this was all a trick of the empty universe. 

It was a trick, of course, but not of his mind. He’d been pushed towards the other angels who had questions, and then, together, they’d been pushed out of Heaven. 

They Fell. 

And as they did, as God’s Love and Her Grace were ripped away–

–suddenly he knew that he had never experienced isolation such as this before. He was not alone– others suffered beside him– but that emptiness had exploded in him, no longer limited to his head or his chest, and instead it swallowed him whole, ripped away everything, and left him exposed and empty and suddenly aware of a new concept–

_Pain._


	8. Stab Wound

They hadn’t decided who should go this time by coin flip so much as by debate, and it had been fairly easy for Aziraphale to win because of it. 

Crowley hadn’t been to the French court in some time, finding it utterly unnecessary considering the debauchery and pride and wrath that Louis XIV had let loose on the place, while Aziraphale, on the other hand, had been what historians would no doubt refer to as a ‘special favorite’ of Louis’s brother, Philippe d’Orleans. (And, Aziraphale thought privately, it was a shame Philippe and Crowley had never met. No doubt they would have spent millions on their wardrobes trying to one up the other– flash, the both of them, and delighted to wear whatever gender’s finery best suited their moods.)

That being the case, it seemed unwise for him to resurface now with Philippe’s son, Philippe II, acting as regent until little Louis XV was old enough to take over. 

Not when Philippe I had kept a painting of Aziraphale beside his bed until his death. 

A lack of aging was a hard thing to explain. Showing up in court as the spitting image of the current regent’s dead father’s favorite lover was harder yet, and awkward besides.

And so off Crowley had gone, to bless Louis XV with a long reign, and to introduce some new strain of sexually transmitted disease. (Hell had taken a special interest after the stories finally filtered down about the last King’s parties.)

It was a fairly quick job, nothing too strenuous, and so while Aziraphale was surprised to see Crowley back in his rooms a day or two after he’d left, it wasn’t unheard of. Save, of course, for the fact that they usually stuck to traveling the human way or flying, since miracles tended to be exhausting at any sort of distance, and, of course, the state of him.

Crowley looked a shambles, hardly his usual put together and well dressed self at all.

“Oh Crowley! That was quick. How did–” He stopped speaking as Crowley collapsed and took his hand away, just for a moment, from where it was pressed to his ribs.

Blood colored his palm and blended into his coat, but Aziraphale had seen enough. 

“Goodness,” He murmured, hastening forward to help lay Crowley out where he’d fallen. 

“Here– let me help.” He snapped and miracled Crowley’s court clothes out of the way, exposing the wound for what it was– a smallish gash, between his ribs and no doubt aimed for his heart, but deep enough that there was some worry there may be more than a little very serious damage. Judging by the quality and quantity of the blood, their aim might have been good.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked, already readying a healing miracle or two. If Crowley had the miracle left in him, he wouldn’t be on the floor right now. And he wouldn’t have come here straight away like this. Aziraphale didn’t make him ask. This, he thought, fell very clearly within the bounds of The Arrangement.

Crowley shook his head. 

“Someone tried to assassinate the king, and I happened to be close.” 

“Philippe?” Aziraphale gasped, distressed to hear that his friend’s son had been in danger. 

“Nah, don’t think it was him. He was furious as all get out when they turned the bastard over. But someone hired him to off Louis, probably someone who thought Philippe ought to keep the job.” Crowley tried to shrug, and Aziraphale felt such a swelling of affection– 

If it had been Philippe, Crowley might have let things be, let humanity make its own choices. But Louis couldn’t be more than eight– and Aziraphale knew all too well how Crowley felt about endangering children. 

“So you saved the King of France, did you?” He asked, pressing his now glowing palms flat to Crowley’s injury. 

Crowley might have answered, but he began hissing, his back arched, as Angelic power flooded his already painful wound. 

They’d done this a few times now, of course, and they both knew how it worked– that angel or demon could heal the other, but they’d both suffer for it. 

The headache set in for Aziraphale even before the wound had closed, and Crowley’s voice cracked under the weight of his silenced scream. 

Finished, Aziraphale collapsed to lay beside his friend on the (temporarily) ruined rug of his apartment. 

Finally, Crowley spoke.

“Technically, you saved the king. Took a miracle to get him to miss at that close of quarters, so–” Crowley did a bit of a horizontal shrug, which he might not have been capable of had he not been partially snake, somewhere in there. 

“I’ll include it in my notes. Thank you.” Aziraphale murmured, pressing his hand over his eyes. 

“Bloody France. Philippe wanted to give me land and a title for my help. Had to miracle myself back here before they strapped me to a healing bed.” Crowley made a face. “Guess the both of us need to lie low for a generation or two, now.” 

Aziraphale considered shaking his head disapprovingly, but it wouldn’t be worth the additional pain. And, in truth, he didn’t mind so much, really. 

“Shame.” He said lightly. “They’ve such marvelous crepes.”

If Crowley responded, Aziraphale didn’t hear; he succumbed to rest while his poor brain throbbed itself slowly back to normalcy.


	9. Shackled

One thing to be said for being a snake was that, in that form, he lacked arms and legs. Which meant they couldn’t be bound together like this.

And as much as he didn’t love changing into it, if the blessed steel wrapped around his wrists wasn’t, well, blessed– he’d have slithered out of here in a heartbeat. 

This was, as people in his situation were so fond of saying, all just a misunderstanding. He’d just been lurking at the edges of the consecrated ground, waiting for Aziraphale to finish praying or blessing someone, or whatever it was he got up to in those places, when a kid had chucked a snowball at Crowley. 

Being himself, he turned round, gathered his own fistfull of powder, and returned the volley. 

Adults, it seemed, were meant to disapprove, and what would otherwise have only been a telling off from the preacher had turned into something far more serious, when the final snowball had caught him in the face and whipped his sunglasses clean off. 

Of _course_ this church had to have heirlooms; why wouldn’t it? Fancy well made steel heirlooms that had been blessed over and over, and that had been resting on consecrated ground for several generations. 

And of course, when seeking to exorcise someone, they pulled them into a nice private room– the basement, in this case– which was also fully consecrated but not at all heated, which created this fantastic cocktail of discomfort– the burn of the holy mixed with the freezing temperatures outside. 

He’d been sat on a chair– which he was at least a little grateful for; no one had thought to bless _that_– but his feet were burning where they rested on the ground, and he kept trying to lift them out of contact with the floor, only to be yelled at to sit right and sit still.

The steel around his wrists was scalding him, and he was more than a little surprised he hadn’t started putting off sulfur scented smoke yet– though he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long. It was so uncomfortable that he felt certain that he would burst into flame at any moment. Which would be a welcome replacement for the cold and the stupid torpor it was putting his all too reptilian brain into. 

The young man who was watching over him– and yelling at him if he got too fidgety– stood straighter as someone began to descend, and Crowley rolled his eyes up to the stairway, bracing himself for the worst. 

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale said, tutting as he hurried the rest of the way down the steps, outpacing the three men in long robes who followed him.

“You know this poor soul?” One of the priests asked, and Crowley flinched. That was the voice of a man who took himself far too seriously and had never had a day of fun in his life. 

“Well, I should say…” Aziraphale began, then paused, looking back and forth between them. “You say he’s possessed, was it?” He asked, obviously feeling out what he could or couldn’t do for him. Crowley took a deep breath, wanting to believe he was saved, but knowing all too well that mightn’t be true. Especially if saving him would endanger Aziraphale’s current assignment. 

“The truth lies in his eyes– the mark of the beast within him.” 

Aziraphale stepped forward and lifted Crowley’s chin almost tenderly, looking into his eyes for the first time in a few hundred years. 

“Oh.” he said softly. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, aware that he was whining just a bit. “The shackles are blessed and the ground is consecrated. If I were possessed, wouldn’t that do it?” 

Aziraphale tilted his head, then his eyes widened as he realized what that actually meant. 

“That’s true!” He said, turning to the others. “If he were possessed by a demon, he ought to be writhing in pain right now.”

“He sure wasn’t sitting still before you came down here– he’s faking now.” 

Crowley shot a glare at the guy who was guarding him. 

“I forgot my socks today– the ground is cold in here, that’s all. I was trying to warm my toes.” 

He watched as the men looked around, and could almost feel Aziraphale urging them to agree with him. 

“But his eyes,” Father no-joy insisted. 

“Perhaps it is only his eyes that are possessed. We should rinse them with holy water, to be certain.” 

Crowley felt his heart leap into his throat at that, and a sharp No burst out of Aziraphale’s mouth before he’d even taken the time to consider. 

“You might blind him if that’s the case!” The Angel protested.

“Better to live as a blind man than to be damned for what his eyes carry,” the solemn priest intoned solemnly. 

“Let me pray over his eyes instead– if it is a weak demon, that may be enough.” 

The guy who seemed to be in charge made a go ahead gesture at Aziraphale, and he reached toward Crowley’s face again. 

“Trust me,” he murmured, and slid his hand over Crowley’s eyes. 

Crowley sighed and braced himself for prayer, but none came. He could feel a miracle happening nearby, but not on him. 

When Aziraphale pulled his hand away, the bright glowing halos of power were still fading, but they surrounded each of the men in the room. 

“And I cast thee out!” Aziraphale announced, and slapped Crowley on the forehead. 

Crowley’s chains fell to the floor, and he stood, careful not to rub his wrists, however much he may wish to. 

“I’m– cured?” He asked, not entirely sure what was going on. 

“You are, dear boy, yes.” Aziraphale hurried to wrap his arm around him, taking some of his weight so that less was on his aching feet. 

“His eyes– they have God in them now.” The unhappy priest spoke dreamily, and Crowley realized that Aziraphale had done a fairly big miracle– tricking them all into seeing what he wanted them to. 

Which was whatever the opposite of Crowley’s real eyes were, probably. 

“Come Crowley, you must be exhausted. Let’s get you home.”

It was unnerving, the way they all insisted on staring into his face on the way out, and the second they were off consecrated ground, and Crowley was able to summon up the power for it, he snapped some sunglasses back onto his face. 

“I’ll owe you for that, I’m sure.” He said, in lieu of thanks. 

“Why don’t you just lay low for a bit, and tonight we can discuss it over some mulled cider?” Aziraphale suggested. 

Crowley flashed him a smile and finally reached up to touch his abused wrist.

“Sounds good to me. I’ll see you tonight, Angel.”


	10. Unconscious

They hadn’t parted ways on the best of terms, and while Aziraphale knew that was partially his own fault for reacting as he had– how else did Crowley suppose he would react?

So little could properly kill him, and yet he wanted a lethal dose of the first, most dangerous thing that came to mind, to keep on his person– or near his person– just in case?

In case of what exactly? 

Boredom? A spell of ennui?

And he completely failed to consider what it would be like to be Aziraphale, if he did use it, knowing he had been the instrument of that final death. 

No, he knew he’d been in the right to deny the demon. But, as the days stretched on with no word from him… he regretted leaving like that. They should have talked it out. Crowley was clearly concerned about something, something was bothering him enough for him to ask in the first place… And Aziraphale had failed him by not learning what it was, by not working to allay those fears. 

Poor Crowley– whatever it was, he must be beside himself now, driven to distraction with fear and, worst of all from Aziraphale’s point of view– Crowley must think himself utterly alone in this matter, after how Aziraphale had disavowed their friendship. 

The guilt settled in his chest and gained weight with every breath, until he was actually selling books, he was so distraught. 

He decided an apology was well overdue at this point, and closed up shop early– a habit he had anyway, and one which vexed attempted buyers to no end, so he considered it no real hardship. But he simply could not wait another minute more to make things right. 

He made his way toward the general direction of Crowley’s flat. He’d never been, of course, but he knew roughly where it was– Mayfair wasn’t so large a place, after all, and once he got close enough, he would just follow the pull of infernal power. He’d all but been made to do so, even if She likely hadn’t imagined he’d do it to apologize and offer consolation, rather than for the purpose of smiting. 

Still, it led him to a normal, if somewhat upscale looking building, and he managed to talk his way past the doorman and into the foyer. 

From there, he took the elevator and ran his fingers over the buttons, feeling for which floor Crowley would be on. 

The fourth floor button bore the unmistakable traces of Crowley’s touch, and so the fourth floor it was. 

The hallway, when he emerged into it, was long and warm, well lit, the carpets plush– and none of it was something that he would expect to appeal to Crowley. 

But as he passed a door, he had to stop, then double back. This, surely, must be his.

Aziraphale knocked, and could feel the solid wood of the door all but vibrating with demonic energy. Silence stretched on, devoid of an answer, and Aziraphale worried for a moment that he could not possibly make it through such a doorway without suffering for it.

But, when he tried the knob, it turned with only the slightest miraculous nudge, and he stepped through into darkness.

He let it close behind him, initially believing that Crowley wasn’t even there. Everything was too still, too quiet, and as he stepped further in, it all felt too empty. 

Had Crowley– left? Moved away without so much as a goodbye? 

Aziraphale’s heart sank and it became even harder to breathe once he laid eyes on the plants, which, without their master’s care, had already begun to wither and droop. 

“There now–” Aziraphale said softly, casting about until he found the pulls for the curtains, unblocking the windows and allowing the poor dears some light. “I don’t know much of your needs but– light and water, yes? We’ll get you cared for, only just hold on…” He located the watering can nearby, a beautiful, elegant little thing, small enough that it would need to be filled several times to water all of these, and wasn’t that so like Crowley– inconvenienced for the style of it, and putting in all that extra work out of care. 

For all that Aziraphale knew he’d object to the latter, if it was ever spoken around him. And so he wouldn’t. Assuming, of course, that he was ever given the chance again. 

Six trips back and forth to the miraculously still running sink, Aziraphale thought he’d gotten all of them, and had calmed down a little bit. 

Crowley clearly took great care and pride in these plants; surely he’d come back for them, if not for anything else. 

(If not for Aziraphale himself. Which… he’d always come back before, but… he’d never asked for anything before. Aziraphale had never denied him like that before.)

Still, the plants seen to, Aziraphale wandered deeper into the flat, just in case there were any more of them, or anything else he could take care of, and maybe some stationary to leave a note apologizing for coming, explaining all that he’d done, and… not apologizing for refusing him the holy water, but… something suitable, wishing him well, perhaps. 

Instead, Aziraphale came across a bedroom. Crowley’s bedroom. 

It took him a moment to notice that Crowley was in it, and when he did, he gasped.

Crowley, however, didn’t so much as stir. 

“Heavens.” Aziraphale whispered, and then, louder, “Crowley?” 

Crowely made no sound, no move, no sign of having heard him. He was so bundled in blankets that Aziraphale couldn’t actually see if he was breathing, not that he needed it, but he knew it was a habit they’d both been making for years, and thus a fairly good sign that he was actually in his body. 

It was all the justification he needed to sneak forward, then to reach out. 

He held his fingers in front of Crowley’s lips, not touching, though he had an incredible urge to do so. But there it was, the soft huff of an exhale through his nose, the air warm against his hand. 

So. Crowley was there, but unconscious. Sleeping, maybe– or in some sort of suspended state. 

It was, he realized, impossible to know whether this had been Crowley’s choice or Hell’s doing. Though, the state of the bedclothes and the fact that Crowley’s sunglasses were neatly folded on the table beside him rather suggested the former. 

“Oh, you selfish thing!” Aziraphale whispered sharply, not entirely sure why he was being quiet now that he knew he wouldn’t wake him. 

“I thought you’d been taken by Hell, or hurt, or had left because you hate me, but here you are just– just– taking a nap out of sheer petulance!” 

He supposed Crowley might still hate him, but the relief and anger were an unfortunate combination that Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what to do with. 

So instead, he let the anger burn out, and found himself turning sad. 

“You’ve left me alone, you know.” He spoke softly now, no longer quite a whisper. “You left your precious plants to die. But I’ll come back. I’ll water them and look in on you. And maybe when you wake up you won’t be quite so angry. Maybe we can…” 

Options sprang to mind, lunches and dinners and concerts and plays… but those, he daren’t put to word, for some reason. 

“I’ll miss talking to you– or, I suppose I can still do that, can’t I?” 

Aziraphale found his eyes tracing across the edges of Crowley’s face, half hoping he’d stir, or answer. 

“I’ll miss hearing your voice.” He finally decided on, quieter still. 

He miracled up a chair and sat there for, oh, who knew how long. Eventually though, with a sigh, he stood. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, once I’ve had a chance to learn a little more about your plants. I hope you’re having good dreams, Crowley.” 

He turned to walk away and then, remembering himself, snapped his fingers and made sure it was so. 

It was all he _could_ do, really.


	11. Stitches

“Crowley– what’s _happened_ to you?” Aziraphale stood quickly, upsetting the book that had been resting in his lap and sending the empty saucer plummeting to the ground. 

“The miracle of modern medicine, or somethin’.” Crowley answered, waving his bandaged hands and working hard to only speak out of the left side of his mouth, as the right side was stitched at the corner– to match the stitches high on his cheekbone, and the swelling that kept his right eye shut. 

“Well, certainly, I can see that, but what happened _before_ that?” Aziraphale pressed, setting his tea down and coming out from behind the low table to approach the battered demon. 

“Bit of a reprimand from below. Guess they didn’t like my report about failing to escalate things and start a war. Nothing too impressive. But I lost consciousness towards the end of it, and they left me in the gutter, so some good samaritans called an ambulance, and–” he gestured again, to encompass all of it. 

“Oh, I wish I could help, Crowley, but you know how heavenly power hurts at the best of times for you– I wouldn’t want to make matters worse.” Aziraphale had begun wringing his hands, and Crowley responded with an eyeroll that, oddly, made Aziraphale feel better. Hurt though he was, at least he was feeling like himself.

“I’ll heal up fine, angel. I just need some help with the stitches. My fingers are a bit, ah–” 

Of course– if he healed with stitches in, the stitches would heal into him, and, vain as he was, the scars would be horrid. And the unfinished sentence, the potential words hung on the air, each worst than the last. ‘Ruined’ ‘destroyed’… Aziraphale firmly refused to think of any more.

“Certainly, my dear. Oh, let’s go into the kitchen, though? The lighting there is much better, and I’d rather see what I’m doing.”

Besides the kitchen, small and cramped as it was, had no rugs to suffer stains if Crowley started bleeding again, which Aziraphale thought he might. 

Crowley was entirely too agreeable, given his usual views on Aziraphale’s kitchen, and he couldn’t help but suspect that Crowley was either in substantial amounts of pain, still under the influence from his hospital stay, or also wanted to preserve the back room, which he definitely found more comfortable than this one. 

Regardless of the reason, when Aziraphale pulled out the chair for him he sat willingly, and only winced slightly at the landing. Aziraphale did his best not to be too obvious as he looked him over, hiding it behind the process of removing his coat and rolling up his shirt sleeves. 

“Is there– that is, I don’t suppose they limited their attacks to your face and hands.” He gave Crowley a much more open up and down, somewhat afraid to see signs of further damage, but all too aware that it must be there. Demons didn’t tend to be particularly kind– or restrained. 

Crowley shrugged, though it looked like it cost him.

“It’ll all heal.” 

“Right.” Aziraphale said faintly, wishing he could ask to see, but afraid that it would be overstepping a boundary. And it wasn’t as though he could do anything to help with it, at any rate. Besides, he was sure anything that needed doing, the human doctors had seen to. 

Having run out of things to distract him or delay with, Aziraphale snapped and summoned his wing care kit onto the little kitchenette table. 

It was probably imposing seeming, the highly polished wooden box decorated with golden inlay. 

It had been a gift, and used to contain a golden vanity set, but it had become home to a host of tweezers and small scissors, specialized combs, soft cloths, and the feathers that came out when he made the effort to straighten them out– far less frequently than he ought to, he knew. 

He lifted the lid away and moved aside the velvet bag of his molted feathers, glad that they were covered, though he had no doubt that Crowley would guess what they were and say something about it. 

He flushed faintly at the possibility, but Crowley remained polite and quiet– subdued. 

Almost worrisome, that. 

Though, it was hardly a mystery as to why.

Aziraphale lifted his scissors and carried them to the small sink. 

“I’m just going to wash them– they’ve been unused for a while, and I don’t want any dust getting in your wounds.”

“‘M not gonna get an infection, angel.” Crowley protested, but it wasn’t a strong argument. 

Aziraphale washed them anyway, and returned, stepping between Crowley’s spread legs to be as close as he could– the better to see what he was doing, of course. 

“Hold still now- I’m going to take them out of your lips first.” 

He caught Crowley’s jaw, hand wrapping under his chin to steady his head, and made the mistake of looking through his sunglasses and directly into his eyes. 

He swallowed compulsively, and had to turn his attention to the stitching in his lips, though that wasn’t precisely a safer place to be looking. 

Crowley was, after all, _made_ to be a temptation. 

Aziraphale took a steadying breath and brought the scissors to the widest of the stitches. He slid them gently under and snipped– one down– and checked in with Crowley’s eyes, looking for any sign of pain. Not, of course, that Crowley made it easy, hiding behind his shades as he did, and averting his eyes.

When he didn’t call a halt, Aziraphale did it again, then again, working his way through all of them. 

Once the loops had all been cut, he sat down the scissors and retrieved the tweezers, beginning the unfortunate process of pulling the threads back through the holes, which were still bright red and inflamed, swollen and painful looking. 

Crowley hissed softly as the first one tugged through, and Aziraphale paused. 

“Forgive me,” He murmured, and reached for the sunglasses. Crowley froze, eyes wide behind the smoky lenses, but he didn’t protest.

“I just want to see when you react– be certain I’m not hurting you too much.” He spoke gently and, he hoped, convincingly– though it was only half-lie, and thus only half-selfish, the way he drank up the sight of the burnished gold of Crowley’s pupils, the way he soaked up the proximity, knowing he shouldn’t, and wishing that so many of their circumstances were different. 

“Get on with it.” Crowley sounded cross, and Aziraphale knew that meant he was more uncomfortable than he wanted to let on. 

“Right.” He said, and began pulling the next through, careful to draw the knot side out, lest he tear Crowley’s dear lip. 

Crowley had to work hard not to wince or flinch, and Aziraphale paused again. 

“‘S fine angel. Just– talk. Say something. Distract me.”

His lips could move more freely now, and Aziraphale turned to summon forth a handkerchief to dab away at the slow trickles of blood that followed. 

“Oh dear me, I wouldn’t know what to say.” He started, fishing around for a suitable topic. 

Which oughtn’t be hard, he knew; he often spent the majority of their dinners nattering away while Crowley watched him with a look that, on anyone else, might be adoration. 

“A pair of women came into the shop yesterday,” He started. 

“Oh no,” came the demon’s sardonic reply, and Aziraphale felt his own lips twitch upwards, absurdly comforted by this bit of normalcy, even as Crowley’s blood dripped down the tweezers and onto Aziraphale’s fingers, stinging lightly where it fell. 

He wiped it off, barely sparing it a thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d had Crowley’s blood on his hands, and while he hoped it would be the last, he knew better than to expect that to be true. 

“Well, they wanted to request that I make a list of the books I had, and list them online. _So that more people might come to buy them_.” He knew he oughtn’t sound scandalized and horrified at the thought; Crowley had pointed out more often than not that traditional bookstores sold books. 

Crowley’s lips pulled into a smile, and Aziraphale was glad to see that it didn’t hurt him any more. 

Pulling the last bit of thread through the holes in his cheek, though, clearly did, and just like that, the tiny glimmer of a smile disappeared. 

He must’ve looked stricken, because Crowley patted at him with one of his wrapped hands. 

“What did you do to drive them off?” He asked gently, and Aziraphale shook himself, turning back to his task.

“Ah, I explained to them that neither computers nor the internet are allowed in the shop. And do you know what they said?”

He goaded for a response while he began snipping at the next set of strings, these somewhat harder to get to due to the relative firmness of the skin over his cheekbone. 

“Mm?” Crowley asked, his eyes drifting closed. 

“Apparently there is something called a Yell Page, with reviews of my shop, and they intend to leave a bad one. Can you imagine! A website to tell people not to come to my store. Modern technology is wonderful.” 

A warm chuckle rolled through Crowley’s chest. And standing close as he was, Aziraphale could feel it. 

“Yelp. One of mine. Invented specifically for me to leave scathing reviews on this place.” 

Like the rumble of his laughter, his words vibrated through Aziraphale’s core, followed by an unrestrained surge of fondness that he was sure even a demon could feel. 

“How very dastardly of you.” He said, though without any accusation or bite. 

“I’m going to cut this last batch as well, and then we can pull all of these and have done with it.” 

“No rush.” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale wasn’t certain whether he was meant to have been able to hear it or not. 

Regardless, he elected to ignore it and focus instead on the work at hand. 

For all that they had been harder to cut, the stitches slid out of this skin more easily, though Aziraphale was careful to hold the skin steady with his other hand, so that it didn’t pull or twist in the process. 

Once all of them were removed, Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s left hand. 

“This next, and then you can heal up, hm?”

“Aziraphale, I should warn you– it’s not– it isn’t pretty.” Crowley was looking away, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, and he had to swallow around a lump of worry that formed in his throat. 

“That’s alright– your hands will be lovely and whole again soon enough. This too shall pass.” He promised him, resolving to hide any reaction he might feel as he unclipped the outermost edge of the bandages and began drawing them away. 

It _wasn’t_ pretty. Whatever they’d done– and Aziraphale’s mind was providing entirely too many options– they’d twisted, broken, and shattered his fingers until they barely resembled hands any longer. The doctors had set them as best as they could, and there were clearly places where they’d put screws in– and that would be trouble later, if Crowley healed them that way. 

“Will you be able to snap at all?” He wondered aloud. 

Crowley grimaced.

“It’ll hurt.” He admitted. “But better than the alternatives.”

“Can I– I can’t heal you but I think, I could remove the metal with a miracle, if you can snap it better after.”

Crowley tilted his head. 

“Would you?” He asked, almost as if he were surprised, and for some reason that made guilt swell in Aziraphale. What had he ever done to make Crowley think otherwise? 

Whatever it was, he would have to be sure to remedy it from here on out. 

He got both hands unwrapped, and sat them gently on Crowley’s thighs.

“Alright. As you said, this will hurt–” He cautioned. Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale snapped, the screws joining the bits of suture string on the table at his elbow. 

Crowley groaned and swayed, looking for all the world as though he might pass out and slump out of the chair. 

“Alright?” Aziraphale asked, grabbing hold of his shoulder to keep him upright, and then pulling his hand away like it had been burned, when it appeared his touch had hurt Crowley. 

But maybe the pain was the grounding force he needed. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his mangled hand.

The snap looked like it hurt, but its effects were instantaneous. 

And, no doubt, costly. 

Crowley swayed in his chair again, but this time he lifted his hands to steady himself with a grip on Aziraphale’s hips. Crowley leaned in, and rested his face against his stomach– usually Aziraphale considered it too plush, too soft, but for the job of being a temporary pillow, he found himself incredibly well suited for it.

“Would you like to stay here and rest for a bit?” Aziraphale asked softly, loathe to end the contact, but well aware that sleeping might be better for Crowley right now, and he had some mess to see to in the form of surgical debris. 

“Mhf.” Crowley answered, or didn’t, but Aziraphale knew what he meant. 

“Come along then,” He said, shifting and pulling Crowley gently to his feet, then up off of them. He carried his demon friend into the back room and laid him out on the soft couch. 

“Don’t you worry. I’ll watch over your sleep.” He assured him. Crowley seemed already to be drifting off, but he smiled gently at the words, and Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and brushed his lips against Crowley’s forehead in an affectionate and blessedly– damnably?– chaste kiss.

Crowley would wake with his glasses and a good whiskey beside him, and Aziraphale in the chair across the way, reading and sipping cocoa. And everything would be perfectly normal again, hurts and temptation alike banished.

For now.


	12. Don't Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up where the 6th left off, and is continued next chapter.

“You supposed that you would get off untouched, while your angelic boyfriend took all the blame?” Dagon asked nastily, situating Crowley behind a one way bit of glass. “We can’t punish you properly, but not restraining you would be stupid.”

He was looking out into the trial room, and though he knew Aziraphale had seen it before, had stood trial here before, Crowley hadn’t had to watch last time. He’d been otherwise occupied in Heaven. 

And somehow, this had seemed more civil at the time. 

Now, though…

“You watch. You can yell all you want, no one will hear you. But don’t try to leave, don’t try to come through the glass. In fact, don’t move at all, or Aziraphale will suffer even worse for it. Are we understood?” 

Crowley glared mutely at them, and Dagon raised a brow.

“Well?” They prompted. Crowley scowled.

“I understand.” He grit out. Dagon gave him a winning grin, the sort that would look more at home on Gabriel’s smug face, if not for the slime and abundance of overly sharp teeth. 

“Excellent.” They said, and left, the door closing behind them. 

Around him, the walls of the tiny room grew tighter. And… sharper. Shattered glass grew from the damp stone walls, and stopped just shy of piercing him. 

Don’t move indeed. As if the threat of causing harm to Aziraphale wasn’t bad enough.

On the other side of the glass, Dagon had just stepped into the room, whispered something into Beelzebub’s ear– no doubt about him, since he all but made eye contact with them through the glass, and Beelzebub stood and called the court to order. 

“Heaven has denied you as an agent of theirsz, which means that you are oursz to punish az we see fit.” 

Their voice echoed more officially than it had back at the shop, and Crowley would have rolled his eyes had he not been so terrified of what came next. 

“For the murder of Hasztur, one of oursz, we condmen you to the hospitalitiesz of Hell. Starting now.” 

Beelzebub sat down, and a door opened. In strode two hell hounds, and Crowley’s heart sank. But they weren’t alone– which was, somehow, worse. Their chains were clenched in the hand of a huge demon, armored, taller than actually made sense for the space, though the doorway and the room itself both seemed scared enough that they decided to expand to accommodate him. 

Crowley swallowed, and felt the glass shard before him tickling at his adam’s apple as it bobbed. 

He knew who that was. He’d managed not to run into him in a few thousand years, and only briefly before that– he’d been… bitter, after the fall. Sad. And as time had gone on, that sadness had turned into anger, at least where the heavenly host were concerned. 

So of course, he’d probably called first dibs on the chance to torture an angel. 

Crowley felt a low whine escape him, and was glad, for the moment, that no one could hear him. 

“Mephistopholes. Your petsz were not invited. We wish the angel to live, after thisz.” The way Beelzebub said it, living did not sound like a mercy, and suddenly Crowley was entirely too aware that they had made no guarantees about the state Aziraphale would be in when he was returned to Earth. 

“They won’t interfere.” Merphistopholes promised, his voice underlaid with the baying of hounds and deep enough that, for a moment, Crowley was afraid the earth was rumbling and Satan was coming to the party, too. “This is for their training. I want them to learn what angel blood smells like.” 

Beelzebub inclined their head. 

“So be it. Your tool of choice?” They snapped, and a cabinet appeared and opened, no doubt thanks to the demonic armory on the other side of the burning lake. 

Mephistopholes approached the cabinet, and for a moment his bulk cut off Crowley’s view– which was fine. His eyes snapped instead to Aziraphale, who, to his credit, was standing perfectly still, perfectly strong, no sign of so much as a tremor of nerves. 

Crowley wanted to be proud of him, and his stoic stiff upper lip, but he knew it wouldn’t– couldn’t– last much longer. 

Mephistopholes turned around and held aloft– a very tiny knife. 

The demons in the audience went crazy. 

Crowley winced, thoughtlessly leaning back the tiniest bit– and he felt the way the glass poked into his back, sharper than it should have been– but what was so much worse was watching the way Aziraphale somehow felt it too. 

Aziraphale spun to face him, knowing somehow– and the other demons cackled, while Crowley suddenly saw the tape that had been over his angel’s mouth throughout his trial. 

Once again, Aziraphale had had no opportunity to speak for himself before being condemned, and Crowley could feel his blood boiling at that. 

He was distracted from his anger, though, when Mephistopholes approached. 

He smirked, reached down, and tore the tape free of Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“It’s about time.” The angel quipped, only to be met with a powerful backhand as Mephistopholes took umbridge with his speaking. 

“The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth are screams.” He informed him. 

Then he took hold of Aziraphale’s hair, pulled up, and used the knife to begin carving–

Crowley didn’t eat, as a rule, and so oughtn’t have anything to throw up. 

That didn’t mean his body couldn’t try. 

And of course, who ever heard of wretching in place?

His movements cut into him and into Aziraphale, on top of the pain already being inflicted on him, and Crowley hated himself for that. 

He could see, through his blurry eyes, the way Beelzebub and Dagon kept glancing towards him, no doubt hoping he was enjoying the show. 

He stood back up, locking all of his limbs in place, and refused to move. No matter how bad it got. No matter how much he wanted to. No matter how hard Aziraphale screamed, and not even when those screams turned to soundless sobs of agony. 

Not even when Mephisopholes finished, and the next demon stepped forward.

Crowley didn’t want to cause Aziraphale any more hurts than he was already getting.


	13. Adrenaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be continued in the next chapter.

The second Crowley was released– long after the demons had filtered out, long after the last stray boot had made contact with Aziraphale’s ribs, long after the shakes had stopped and Aziraphale had, hopefully passed out– or at least gone still– He stumbled out of his small cell and collapsed on shaky legs. 

But he couldn’t let himself be weak now. 

He felt his heart pounding in his chest hard enough that it must be in some danger of giving out, and he felt himself surging upwards with a strength he’d thought himself completely run dry of, who knew how long ago. 

Beelzebub laughed as he fought his way onto his hands and knees, then onto his feet, his usual swagger gone in place of a desperate ground covering stride that closed the distance between he and Aziaphale’s broken form in a matter of seconds. 

“You should get him out of here before szomeone comes back for another round.” They told him, voice dry and without sympathy. 

“They’ve all had as many rounds as they can be bothered with.” Crowley ground out, his hands hesitating as he searched for some part of Aziraphale that he wouldn’t be hurting by touching. 

Ultimately, though, there was little choice. He rolled him over and lifted him up, glaring as he tugged his angel into a bridal carry, and tried to ignore the way he flopped limply in his arms and whined with every breath. 

Crowley looked up and tried to figure out how to do this– how to dig his way back to Earth with Aziraphale in tow. He wanted to scream as he realized the way the ground would press in on every wound, every broken bone. How the dirt would be ground into every sore. 

He would have to make everything so much worse before it could get any better. 

“I hope you can forgive me,” he murmured to the barely conscious man in his arms. His best friend, whom he’d loved forever, and who he’d have to hurt, now, to save him.

“Usze the lift.” Beelzebub said suddenly, and Crowley felt his head jerk up with surprise. “We insztalled it before the apocalypsze– before you ruined it. Take it and go.” 

They gestured and the wall slid open to show– clean, sterile, tiny walls, a brightly lit ceiling… and a way out. 

Crowley had no idea what caused this spark of kindness, but he made a mad dash for it before they could change their mind. 

He got inside, heart thumping wildly again, and swung up a leg to hit the up button. The lift lurched to life, and Aziraphale moaned, pulling Crowley’s attention down to the angel in his arms. 

He was dripping blood on the pristine floor, and Crowley had not a single fuck to give. He needed to get him to safety, get him awake, get him to heal– provided he had any energy left for it after all that. 

He hoped he hadn’t burned any miracles on staying conscious through the torture, though knowing how stubborn Aziraphale could be–

The doors opened with a ping, and Crowley stepped out, only to immediately feel as pain shot up through his legs. 

This wasn’t earth at all. 

They’d gone up, all right. All the way up. 

And he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

This wasn’t like it was in a church, no hot-sand-at-the-beach pain, but closer to jumping feet first into a lake of boiling lava pain.

But maybe– he wasn’t one of theirs any more, Beelzebub said, but maybe they’d still heal him. They couldn’t just abandon him– he hadn’t fallen, after all. He was still an angel.

Crowley began casting around, looking for some sign of life, but found none. Still, he could feel Aziraphale stirring, could actually see him beginning to glow at the edges, healing just from absorbing the power of heaven. 

It hurt, but Crowley decided he would manage. He took another couple of steps into the hallway and lay Aziraphale out. 

If it hurt to walk on, that had to mean there was power in it, right? And he was in agony, though it was dulled, no doubt by the adrenaline high that he was still riding. 

If they were caught, he doubted it would go well for either of them. 

He retreated into the elevator, where the sting was a little less, the ground less holy and more neutral, and slumped against the opening. 

He stuck his foot into the gap, keeping the doors from closing, and watched, and waited.

Even the air here hurt his lungs, but Aziraphale was _healing_. Crowley would have thanked Her, if he wasn’t afraid it would draw too much attention right now. 

He could feel the crash coming, feel as the pain intensified and the energy receded. 

But Aziraphale was healing. Not quickly, but, still– he would wait it out. It was worth it. He owed him that much, at least. 

Crowley wasn’t sure how long he stood there, the lift doors rhythmically trying to crush him at regular intervals. But when the glowing stopped and Aziraphale looked whole again, Crowley stumbled forward, though he winced at the pain, and pulled the angel back into the lift.

This time he paid better attention to the buttons. There were only three. An up arrow, a down arrow, and a circle in between. 

He pressed the middle one and clung tightly to Aziraphale, more than aware that if he sat him down again, he might not have the energy to lift him back up. 

When the lift stopped, Aziraphale’s eyes opened, and he half carried him out the doors with a sound like a sob.

“Hey angel. We’re on our way home now.” He told him, voice cracking with gratitude. 

He was fairly certain Aziraphale hadn’t left hell with both eyes intact, but they were fine now. Their little side trip to heaven had been more than worth it. 

He was hobbling, his legs still feeling no small amount like they’d been boiled, and he blessed it all and flung a quick miracle around the both of them, pulling Aziraphale in tight to his chest as his wings sprang forth from his back.

He had no idea where they were, and no idea if the hole in the bookshop had properly closed up yet or not. So his flat seemed the best bet. And he was sure he’d be able to find it from the air– if he could just keep going that long. 

He lurched into the sky, and Aziraphale lifted his arm to drape it around Crowley’s neck and he buried his face into his chest.

It gave him the strength he needed to get them there.


	14. Tear Stained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be continued in the next chapter.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to want to see him. 

He didn’t leave Crowley’s flat, but he also made an effort to avoid him. He was still there, of course; there were signs of it everywhere. 

The soft soundtrack of quiet sobbing, the rustle as he took Crowley’s bedspread, trailing it around him through the flat as he wandered. 

And the moisture. 

Tear stained sheets and pillows, rumpled kleenexes in the wastebasket that Crowley would swear he didn’t stock, the odd drip where water features weren’t, like on the arm of the chair in the uncomfortable living room that Crowley had been carefully skirting around, as long as the angel was in it. 

At first he’d tried to go to him, to comfort him, but Aziraphale flinched and shrank from even his approach, and he’d stopped that quickly enough. He’d tried speaking, but Aziraphale had clapped his hands to his ears, the noise too loud for him right now. 

Crowley didn’t know what to do. He had nothing he could offer, no real words of reassurance. 

Aziraphale had, quite literally, been through Hell for him, and he knew he was nothing but a reminder of that. 

But he couldn’t leave– not when he couldn’t explain that he wasn’t abandoning him, not when he wasn’t even sure that was what Aziraphale wanted. 

And Aziraphale didn’t leave either. 

So together they haunted his flat, circling one another and scurrying away from even the occasional glance for upwards of a week. 

Neither of them had been back to the bookshop, and he had no idea what the state of things there were. But he also couldn’t think of anything there that would actually help, save maybe some simple comforts. 

That in mind, he’d miracled up some hot cocoa and left it next to the bed while Aziraphale was in the bathroom. 

He found the empty cup beside the sink later, cleaned out, and could only hope that it hadn’t been dumped down the drain. 

But that did offer an opportunity. 

He claimed the office for the day and sat in his throne, carefully drafting, rejecting, and rewriting a letter to leave for Aziraphale. 

In the end, he decided to keep it simple. The last thing Aziraphale needed was six pages of guilt and apologies, and to feel like he had to comfort Crowley, when he was still processing his own pain.

_Hello Angel, _

_Been a minute. _

_I know things are no good right now. I know you don’t want to see me, and I understand. But if there’s anything you want, or want from me, anything I can do to help… Well, you’ve always been a better writer than I am. _

_I’m putting paper on the refrigerator, for food orders. There’s takeaway menus on top of the microwave, if you’re ever hungry. I’m happy to call it in, order groceries for delivery, go out and get it if you want. _

_I’m gonna redo the living room a bit, make it more comfy, but if there’s anything you want there, either, just… write it down. There’s papers next to the bed, on the coffee table, and on my desk, too. I’ll check them all as often as I can, without crowding you. _

_And… if you need time and space, if you want me to leave, just let me know. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want._

_I’m sorry. I’ll do anything I can. _

_I love you. _

_C_

It was, he knew, probably still too much. Too many options, too many demands. And the first time he had said that. Written it. The first time he’d put it to words. 

But… he hoped it would do more good than harm. 

He snuck past the living room, moving slowly to stay quiet as possible, trying not to disturb the pile of bedding that had taken up a softly hiccuping residence on the only chair that passed for comfortable, and left the note beside the bed. It seemed Aziraphale spent most of his time there. Not that Crowley could blame him. It was the nicest place to be in the flat. 

He placed the promised notepads and pens in the kitchen, and slunk back into his office– out of the way and no threat at all, then sat in silence, straining his ears for the sound of Aziraphale moving again. 

When he did move, Crowley did too– just to put the last writing set on the coffee table. 

But he froze in place as Aziraphale reemerged and hurried straight towards him, bedding abandoned and the letter clenched in his hand. 

Crowley braced himself, unsure what to expect. It had been ages since Aziraphale had made even the slightest attempt to smite him, but if there was ever a time he deserved it… 

Aziraphale collided with him, clinging tight and holding on, refusing to let go. Crowley slowly lifted his arms up to return the hug, careful not to squeeze too tight. He didn’t want it to feel like he was trying to keep him there. 

Still, the hug was cut short, as Aziraphale pulled away to push the letter Crowley had written back into his hands. 

Aziraphale had taken a moment to scribble out six words, but it was more than enough.

_Don’t leave. I love you too. _

Crowley clasped the letter to his chest, and wished it could have been otherwise. He would have loved to say it with some grand gesture, take Aziraphale out, give him the world. 

But maybe this was what had been needed. 

Crowley tilted Aziraphale’s face up and finally, finally wiped away the tears that fell there, though he knew it was fairly futile for the time being. 

But it was, for the moment, something they had in common.

Both of their faces were tear stained.


	15. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be continued next chapter.

They were laying in bed, as they did sometimes, when Aziraphale needed it. He was a little more vocal now, and as long as nightmares and memories weren’t creeping up behind his eyes, he could stand to be touched for a while. 

But it had to be at his speed. 

Which was certainly fine– Crowley was amazed they were able to touch at any speed, honestly. 

And so he was on his back, head propped up a bit so that he could look down at the angel who had his cheek pressed to Crowley’s chest. 

He was listening to his heart and leaving darker stains on his dark grey shirt from his tears, but Crowley didn’t comment on either. 

Nor did he reach up to stroke his fingers through those brilliant bouncy, fluffy curls. They’d grown out a bit in the angel’s neglect, and they looked like a cloud, but he didn’t want to make Aziraphale feel trapped, or like he was being held to him. He wanted him able to pull away any time he needed to. 

Aziraphale distracted him from such thoughts, though, by speaking. 

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he began, and Crowley’s stomach did a cruel little flip. 

“You’re fine, angel. What is it?” He kept his voice down to a soft, gentle rumble. Nothing sharp, nothing threatening, and certainly no accusation. 

“I know it can’t have been easy for you, going to heaven and healing me after– after that.” His mouth wobbled slightly, and Crowley chanced a quick squeeze to his shoulder, offering silent reassurance. 

This was a lot of words for Aziraphale right now. 

“It was worth it, though.” He offered, when he didn’t immediately continue.

Aziraphale frowned, then blew out a frustrated sounding breath of air.

“It seems odd, not having scars to show for all of that.” He said finally. And Crowley blinked. 

“I suppose I can see that. But… do your lot ever keep scars? I thought angels always healed unblemished and perfect?” 

Aziraphale lifted a shoulder listlessly. 

“I don’t have any, no. But it makes it feel like– sometimes I think I’ve just gone mad. Like it’s all in my head.” 

“It isn’t. It was real, I promise you. I wish I could take it back, wish I could have done something, but… I’ve never seen it be that bad. And I didn’t know they had tools to link two people like that. Demons don’t usually pair off.”

Aziraphale made a small noise of distress. 

“I didn’t realize– they were hurting you too? Could you– you didn’t feel– everything?” His words got stuttery and he seemed to be having a hard time breathing, and Crowley froze for a fraction of a second. 

“No, shh, it’s okay, it’s over now, remember? You’re safe. I’m sorry.” He sat up and pulled Aziraphale closer, smoothing a hand down his back in soothing circles. He waited until he could hear Aziraphale breathing easier. 

“I’m not keeping secrets from you.” Crowley told him gently. “But if you don’t want to talk about it right now, I understand.”

“What did they do to you?” Aziraphale pressed.

“I couldn’t feel what was happening to you– they made me watch, made me hold still, or I’d be sliced up. And when I did move, you felt what I did. So… I’m sorry. That I couldn’t help. That I hurt you too.” 

Aziraphale was looking up at him with glassy eyes and Crowley had to look away, too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I thought they would have told you, or I would have said sooner.” He bit down on his lip, to stop any more excuses from coming out. 

“I knew you couldn’t have stopped it.” Aziraphale said, words hardly more than a whisper. “But I didn’t understand why you weren’t at least there.” He swallowed, and it was audible. “I’m sorry. For doubting you.” 

“No, Angel, don’t you apologize. Not when you went through that for me, because of me. We can both be as sorry as we want, it won’t change anything. I’m here now.”

Aziraphale swallowed again.

“Heaven… hurt you, didn’t it?” 

Crowley grimaced. His legs were still aching, but it had faded some. It was getting better.

“Didn’t feel great. But like I said, it was worth it.” He ran gentle fingers down Aziraphale’s face, watchful for any sign that their conversation was making contact difficult for him. But Aziraphale leaned forward to chase the touch. 

“Being in hell doesn’t heal your hurts though, and heaven didn’t heal you– do you have scars?” 

Aziraphale seemed fixated on it, and Crowley considered how best to answer.

“Not from then. I was trying not to hurt you more than you were being hurt, so the cuts were little things, shallow. They healed on their own. But, from other times… demons don’t have to look pristine to fit an aesthetic. The only healing that happens is what you can manage for yourself. So there’s been times– yeah. Yeah, I have scars.”

One of the reasons Aziraphale had never seen most of his body. Other than the obvious hereditary enemies, bosses would destroy them for it reasons.

“Can I– see them?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley took hold of his hands. 

“Will it help, or will it make you feel worse, do you think?” He asked. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying, are you sure?” 

Aziraphale nodded mutely, and Crowley pulled off his shirt first, then his undershirt– as many layers as he’d felt like he needed, this morning. Now he wished he’d worn a few more, if only for the additional layer of procrastination between him and Aziraphale’s reaction. 

Once his skin was bared, he looked over, trying to gauge what Aziraphale was thinking. His face was as open and shattered as ever though, and he lay gentle fingers on the silvery lines that crossed skin and scales alike. 

“You got these during your reprimands.” Aziraphale mumbled. “But you still kept coming back, risking more. Kept the Agreement, even though…” 

“You’ve always been worth it. It’s just a reminder, that’s all. Pain stops, Angel. This kind of pain, at least. And Hell is real, whether it leaves this kind of mark on you or not.” Crowley told him quietly, hoping that it would reassure him– reminding him that he wasn’t going mad. 

“Hell is real,” Aziraphale repeated, “and the only devil who matters is here.” He finished, rather mutilating the bard, but sounding, somehow in spite of it, a little more like himself. 

He gave Crowley a watery little smile, then leaned in and pressed his lips to the scar over Crowley’s heart, which made it stutter and skip a beat.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale whispered, and for the first time in a month, the tears in his eyes might not have been from pain. 

His words exhausted, he clung to Crowley, fingers skating across his scars as if they were a comfort. A reminder, like Crowley had said. 

Crowley’d never been grateful for those reminders before, but he was now.


	16. Pinned Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be continued in the next chapter.

Healing is never perfectly linear. 

This is true of every type of injury, and the kind you can’t see is more susceptible to backslides than most. 

Case in point, Crowley had woken from a nap they had been taking (the overnight kind, as Aziraphale still clung to the fact that he didn’t sleep– only took the occasional nap, sometimes until morning) with a holy steel dagger pressed to his throat and Aziraphale snarling, unseeing, down at him, his arms trapped on the bed under the angel’s knees. 

“Why are you here? What are your orders?” Aziraphale spoke in some variant of an enochian tongue, barely understandable, thanks to how long it had been since Crowley had heard it. He felt his heart pounding against his ribs, and swallowed, thinking fast.

“This is my flat, and I’m here because you asked me not to leave. Aziraphale? Wake up?” Crowley spoke carefully, trying to get through to him. 

He didn’t know that waking him was quite the right term, he had his eyes open and was staring Crowley in the face, but who knew what he was seeing– or where in the past his mind was. 

“You think you can trick me? I am a _Principality_. I was made for the annihilation of your kind, demon. Now tell me your master’s plan, and I can promise to make your death quick.” 

Crowley could feel his eyes widening with real fear– not only because Aziraphale had no idea where he was or who Crowley was, not only because he meant his threats, but because if Aziraphale did manage to hurt him, he knew it would destroy him when he came back to himself later. 

“Yes, alright– I’ll talk.” Crowley said, scrambling for something to say. “It ah– it started in the garden, in Eden. You remember?” He reached for something, anything that would jog Aziraphale’s memory of them. 

“It started with a snake, and an apple, and the humans– you gave them a flaming sword. And then God brought about the first rain.” 

Above him, Aziraphale had gone still. Crowley didn’t fight, didn’t try to free himself. He didn’t want either of them getting hurt. 

“That was before She decided to use a flood and kill off the wicked humans– you remember that? Do you remember, when you helped me to save those little ones, and how we had to protect them, raise them ourselves until they were old enough to survive? Our children, Aziraphale, do you remember them?”

“I…” Aziraphale was blinking rapidly now.

“Wasn’t the last time, either, was it? We raised little Warlock. That one took after me, make no mistake. A right troublemaker. He came to visit us recently, do you remember? In your shop. Hastur brought him.” Crowley was careful now, hoping to jog Aziraphale back to the present without shattering him in new and different ways. 

“Hell.” Aziraphale said, and shuddered. Crowley found himself nodding. 

“That’s right. And you’re back from hell now, aren’t you? You’re safe. Here. With me. In my flat. In our bed. And I love you.” 

He was feeling a little desperate, but that seemed to do it. Aziraphale took his hand with the knife away and looked down at it, seemingly puzzled at the way it was shaking. 

“Crowley?” He asked, broken sounding, his eyes finally focusing on Crowley’s face, and with a sob he threw the knife away in one direction and threw his body in the other, rolling himself off of Crowley and out of bed. 

Crowley sat up and held out a hand.

“Aziraphale, it’s alright. You’re alright, you didn’t hurt me. It must have been a bad dream, or… Sleep walking. Something like that. It’s alright now.” 

“I should go.” Aziraphale said, his words back in English and his voice so full of self loathing that it made Crowley flinch. 

It was a good thing Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, but, oh, how Crowley wished he would. 

“Don’t go on my account.” Crowley settled on, trying to sound as normal as possible. “I won’t stop you if you want to go, of course. Whatever you need to do, but… do it for you, not out of some… some misplaced–”

“I was going to kill you!” Aziraphale said, not quite wailing, but close. 

“You didn’t, though.” Crowley pointed out, apparently unhelpfully, because Aziraphale snapped, and of a sudden he was dressed. 

It took Crowley aback for a moment– it was the first miracle he’d seen Aziraphale perform since hell, and he’d been more than a little afraid he wasn’t able to anymore–

But the surprise abandoned him at the same time Aziraphale did, as, with another snap, he took himself out of the flat, and to places unknown. 

Only, Crowley knew where. Where else would Aziraphale go, while he was hurting and afraid? 

But the bookstore was where he’d been taken from. And if there was still a gaping hole to hell in the middle of it– 

Crowley swore and launched himself out of bed, dressing in a snap and following Aziraphale before he had chance to take another breath.


	17. "Stay with me."

The bookshop was still dark when Crowley arrived and the doors were locked, but that meant nothing. 

He pushed them open. 

“Aziraphale?” He called. “Aziraphale, are you here? Is everything–”

Of course everything wasn’t okay. Stupid question. 

“Aziraphale please–” Crowley miracled up a light, and found his eye drawn immediately to the hole in the floor and the angel crouching beside it, one hand outstretched the way you might reach for a fire in the cold. 

“Aziraphale!” 

Crowley was at his side in a moment, all but dragging him back from the edge. Both of them were breathing fast and shallow, and Crowley tried to calm himself, to be the anchor that Aziraphale so desperately needed right now. 

He was, at best, only partially successful.

“What the blazes do you think you’re doing!?” He demanded, taking rough hold of both of the angel’s shoulders and shaking him, terrified. 

“Maybe you should’ve let them finish the job.” Aziraphale said dully. 

“What?!” Crowley couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly, but the chasm that had opened in his chest– the twin of the one in the floor– told him he had.

“They made me into something I can’t– I don’t want to be dangerous. Not for you. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” Aziraphale looked him in the face, and Crowley shook his head violently. 

“Angel, I’m not scared of you. I’m scared for you, but not of you. Do you understand? If you hurt me, I’d heal. If you hurt yourself, if you chuck yourself down that hole– that’s not the sort of thing I can come back from.” 

Even saying the words felt too real, and he could feel his chest trying to turn inside out. 

“You don’t think you’d be better off?” Aziraphale asked, in the tone of voice he used when he tried to sound logical. It was like hitting Crowley’s already broken heart with a brick. 

“There is no possible way that I’d be better off without you. Aziraphale– please, I only just– I have always wanted you. Always. And I have always loved you, and I always will. Things are bad now– believe me, I understand. But even the worst thing, the worst thing that ever happens to you in your life, you can come back from. You just have to give yourself the chance to heal.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, struck silent, tears running soundlessly down his cheeks. 

“Please Aziraphale? Just… give me more time. Give yourself more time. We’ll fix the shop, and make tea, and if you feel alright later, we can sleep here tonight. Or we can go back to the flat. Or go anywhere you want– anywhere at all. Only just… stay with me? Don’t leave me. Not now.” 

Crowley wasn’t certain when he’d begun crying, too, but Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him and held Crowley tight to his chest. 

“I won’t hurt you.” Aziraphale promised. “I’ll give it time, I’ll try to get better, just– don’t– don’t look at me like that. Like I’m tearing your heart out.” 

“If you were to die, you would take my heart with you.” Crowley told him, dead serious despite the obvious melodrama of the statement. 

Aziraphale pressed his hand to Crowley’s chest. 

“Can’t have that.” He said faintly. 

“Good.” Crowley said fervently, and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Let’s… let’s move away from here. The back room should be fine. I’ll make you tea or– how about some cocoa?” 

Aziraphale thought for a moment, then shook his head. 

“With the month we’ve been having, I think we need some alcohol. Just a bit.” He hastened to add, at the look of dismay on Crowley’s face. 

“A nightcap, then.” Crowley conceded. “And then what?”

“And then… home? Your home, I mean.”

Crowley felt the chasm in his chest filling with something warm that was fighting back the fear.

“Our home, as long as you want it.” He corrected gently. Aziraphale managed an answering smile at that and stood, pulling Crowley up with him.

It was a tiny step towards normal, and one he wasn’t sure they were ready to take, but it felt like the further they got from the edge of that hell hole, the closer they came to life. 

It was a start, and he would hold onto it with both hands.


	18. Muffled Scream

The cultists were getting daring. It must be the internet, and the ability to find people with shared interests, regardless of whether that was knitting or demonic summoning rituals.

It had been a good long time since either of them had been summoned, mostly because Aziraphale was very good at tracking down books, and kept the relevant ones under lock, key, and celestial protection. 

But that didn’t stop them from using other, Earthlier methods. 

That is to say, one day Crowley got jumped in an alley by a bunch of half-witted pseudo-demi-neo-satanists.

Aziraphale had been expecting him, waiting for the Bentley to roar down the street and pick him up for a lovely spot of supper before they went to their concert for the evening. Crowley had found, according to him, the most tempting little Hawaiian food stand, complete with tropical drinks to brighten up even the dreariest of London weather. 

Which, as it was nippy and raining, Aziraphale was rather looking forward to. Along with the company, of course. 

And, as his expected company grew later and later, and didn’t answer either his desk phone nor his pocket one, Aziraphale grew… concerned. Crowley had gotten good at letting him know if Hell was calling him back, if for no other reason than to be sure someone would see to his plants if they kept him longer than anticipated. 

But with their plans thrown into the mix… Crowley never cancelled if he could help it, and then it was with profuse promises to make it up later. He’d never once simply skipped out on Aziraphale. 

Which meant something must be wrong.

When it hit the six hour mark with no sign nor word of Crowley, Aziraphale opened his senses, searching for him the way would search for a bakery by smell. It was just that singular note of familiarity, amidst all the rest of the teeming sensory input. And he followed it, locking the shop behind him, miracling himself unseen, and launching into the sky, his wings enjoying the uncommon stretch, even as he focused on his worry and his sense of Crowley’s whereabouts. 

Everything became sharper, and Aziraphale frowned, pointing himself in the right direction and wondering what in heaven’s name Crowley was doing in Somerset of all places. 

When he landed, he was rather far removed from anything– most of the area seemed overgrown and disused. There had been a big house, back some ways away, and a couple of lakes, but… If not for the lights ahead, and his own superior sight, he mightn’t have even made out the eerie surroundings. 

Whoever had Crowley– and he couldn’t sense any other demons, nor any angels for that matter, so the humans who had Crowley had brought him to an abandoned childrens’ park. 

There were rails, though no trains were in sight. A river cut through the area, but it was sluggish, its banks littered with all sorts of debris– including a massive amount of long-dead glowsticks, which spoke to the location’s popularity as a site for raves. 

He stepped distastefully over what he vaguely recognised as drug paraphernalia, and wrinkled his nose at a sign welcoming him to ‘Crinkleybottom Junction’. A niggle of familiarity wormed in his mind, and he sighed, finally realizing where they were. 

Crowley and his bloody fixation with television programming. He wound up the wiggling road and stopped in front of a small tunnel, peering through the dark towards the only building that showed any sign of life. Faintly, he was able to make out a single word: “Dunblobbin”

Which meant, of course, that the wart ridden yellow and pink spotted fixture ahead, the one with the lights coming through the empty windows, must be Mr. Blobby’s house. 

He had no time left to wax nostalgic about Crowley’s failed attempt to horrify children, though, because he heard, of a sudden, an overly familiar muffled scream and the sound of hammering. 

“Crowley!” he shouted in response, barreling around the rotting picket fencing and through the doorway,startling the half-dozen spooky looking twenty somethings that had gathered in the process. 

Crowley had a bag over his head and was being staked to the walls, spikes through his hands, spreading him across the remains of a sculptural fireplace which seemed to have been originally made of chicken wire and polystyrene. 

“Another demon!” One of the cultists cried, turning and damn near tripping over her red crushed velvet fancy-dress cape as she raised her knife. 

“I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale began, cranking up his aura and pulling out the halo for effect. “I am an angel.” 

He willed the girl to drop her blade, and she did, before sinking to her knees, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

“And you–” Aziraphale said, turning his gaze to the men who had apparently just maimed his friend, “Have stolen my demon and ruined my dinner plans.” 

Their tools dropped to the floor and one of them clasped his hands together, as if in supplication. 

“We’re sorry– we didn’t know! You can have him back, just don’t eat us! Please uh, you highness, holiness, uh– my lord.” 

Aziraphale paused, quirked his head quizzically, and then realized they thought he’d meant his dinner plans were the demon. 

Well. Whatever put the fear of God in them, he supposed. 

Crowley was keening through whatever gag they had on him, and Aziraphale abruptly was done talking. He wanted to get him down and seen to. 

“Go reconsider whom it is you pray to, and repent.” He ordered. Then, when they still stood, stricken, he raised his voice. “GO!” 

They scattered like vermin under bright light, and he turned down the halo and aura before approaching his friend. 

“Crowley,” He said more gently, and removed the cloth bag. 

Apparently they’d been doing some sort of twisted reenactment of that famous crucifixion, because when he drew off the bag, he could feel the drag, and sharp thorns cut into the skin of Crowley’s forehead before getting tangled in his hair. 

He looked the picture of abject misery, and Aziraphale hated it. He gently pulled the crown of thorns free of Crowley’s hair, which lay tangled and stuck to the sweat and blood on his face. It was all wrong, all too far from the way Crowley always looked in Aziraphale’s mind. 

“I’m going to pull you down now, okay? Are you ready?”

Crowley visibly swallowed, but nodded. 

Aziraphale looked him over, considering, and decided it would be kinder to do it all at once. Like removing a plaster. 

He was lucky they hadn’t managed to stretch Crowley’s arms out completely, or he wouldn’t have been able to reach, but as it was, he took hold of the bit of the stakes that stuck out, cold and iron and squared enough that he suspected they might be railroad ties. 

“On three.” He said, for warning, then counted down. “One, two– three!”

He pulled with his considerable strength and felt the cheap construction crumble. 

With the gag still in Crowley’s mouth, his scream came out muffled, which was only a kindness to Aziraphale’s ears, since no one else was around to hear it. 

Once released, Crowley collapsed to the floor, and Aziraphale threw the stakes aside, sinking to his knees with him. 

Carefully, he reached up and pulled at the duck tape, which wrapped entirely around Crowley’s head, and meant pulling at his hair even more. 

Finally, Crowley was completely freed, and the sweat and blood on his face began to mingle with his tears and the blood from his hands on the floor. 

“Bout time you got here.” Crowley said, though there was no venom in it. 

Aziraphale huffed out a soft laugh, and chose to ignore the rasp of Crowley’s voice, rough from his screaming, no doubt. 

“Can you snap?” He asked, worried for the state of the demon’s hands, and Crowley sighed and struggled for a moment, but managed. 

Aziraphale summoned his handkerchief again and began wiping at the blood left behind on Crowley’s now healed forehead before handing it to him to see to his hands. It was odd that he’d not cleaned himself up, and meant he had probably worn himself out with other attempted miracles, or fighting, or was just still out of it from the pain. Aziraphale didn’t comment, but instead did a quick miracle of his own to make them both look more presentable. 

They still had to get back, after all. 

“How did you get here?” Crowley asked, throat still sore sounding. 

“Ah, I flew.” Aziraphale admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. 

Crowley snorted, and it was clear they weren’t getting back like that. Aziraphale wasn’t even certain he would make it back to the main road, tired as he looked. 

“Give you a ride to the bus stop?” He offered, and Crowley jerked his head around to stare at Aziraphale disbelievingly. 

Aziraphale realized too late the echo of Crowley’s offer from the night he’d given him the holy water, and he shrugged apologetically. 

“It’s all overgrown. The place is abandoned. It’s also raining. And of course, we’ll have to commandeer a coach, but…” He shrugged. “I’ve got a strong bourbon back at the shop that should help take the edge off.” 

He saw as Crowley’s mind struggled to catch up, and saw the exact moment he remembered what they’d had planned. 

“I’m sorry Angel, we missed the concert.” He looked so guilty that Aziraphale didn’t bother stopping himself from leaning forward and pulling Crowley into a hug. 

“Hardly your fault, dear boy, and I know you’ll make it up to me. Lots of other concerts out there. In the meantime though…” He stood, pulling Crowley with him, and as he’d expected, found him swaying on his feet. 

He turned around, looked back over his shoulder, and awkwardly patted his own back. 

“Hop on.”

Crowley looked like he’d bit a lemon, and though he obeyed, with his face so close to his ear, Aziraphale heard him mumble something about it being undignified, and he was grateful that Crowley couldn’t see his expression. 

“Come now, tell me about Mister Blobby. We’re in his house, you know. One of yours, wasn’t it?” 

And maybe urging Crowley to speak was unkind, with his rasping from his muffled screaming, but the glee with which he told the story did much to carry them out of the park and towards the road to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know who [ Mr. Blobby ](https://youtu.be/rNkgDJpcuwU)is? Can’t believe they made a [ theme park](https://youtu.be/8xqRh6GUW8Q) around him? Well, now you do. You’re welcome.


	19. Asphyxiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the start of a two part mini-series, which will be continued tomorrow. This story was inspired, in part, by [ this gorgeous art by Peter Mohrbacher](https://www.angelarium.net/rahab-angel-of-the-deep).

Aziraphale had all but forgotten the lesson he’d been given. He’d wanted to forget– it was awful, and he’d learned what he was meant to.

He had never refused another order from Heaven again. 

But he’d forgotten what had been done to him to cause that fear of disobedience, until one day when Crowely had invited him over and they were sitting in his living room, on temporarily more comfortable chairs, watching some special on his telly about the so called ‘Bermuda Triangle’. 

He hadn’t been fully paying attention, but something about the images had caused him to remember– 

He’d said no. And they intended to show him what happened to those who told Her no. 

He’d been forced to share a corporation with another angel– an odd enough punishment in itself, but… 

But this angel’s corporation was _dead_. It was at the bottom of the sea, and Aziraphale could feel the other in there with him. This angel was trapped in this rotting but preserved corpse, the gas of the body’s decomposition rolling off of it in waves, driving away the fish, upsetting the technology of those who came near. It was wrong, and twisted, and somehow healing itself due to the angel _still trapped inside of it_.

Through the water, Aziraphale could see the skeletal remains of all kinds of vessels. Boats, metal and wooden, different sorts of airplanes– humans.

And he could feel the panic of having a body that couldn’t breathe, or move, a body that wasn’t alive. His mind was screaming at him that he needed air, needed to get away, and it made him desperate to thrash, to swim, to bolt upwards, though he could tell from the light that he was a long way down from where the sun reached. But even though he couldn’t move, his struggle was having an effect– the waters churned, trying to part, the sea around them grew darker, more violent, more turbulent, and in his fear, Aziraphale stilled.

And through his panic, he felt the mind he was with reach for him. 

_You live?_

The words were old, ancient, in a language that had never met a mortal’s ears. 

_Not for long, here._ Aziraphale thought back, panicking still. _We must do something!! Swim! _

_We cannot._ The other Angel said it sadly. _This is our domain._ _This is our punishment. And our power._

_Yours._ Aziraphale’s mental voice was gasping, going woozy and weak from the lack of oxygen, though part of him knew that even in a living body, he didn’t actually need it. 

He tried to focus on that, to focus on what he had been sent here to learn. Was it to find peace, no matter what situation She put him in? 

_Why are you being punished?_ He asked, sounding calmer in their shared, rotting mind. 

_It was the third day. She told me to still the waters, and I refused. I made them roil and rage– I still do! And She– had never been refused before. I was– am– too proud. It was a weakness. Now it is a strength. _

Aziraphale realized suddenly that this Angel predated the Fall. This was the first rebellion– one that no one else had known about. 

_I was the angel of the oceans. Now I am that, but also the angel of death. The angel of fear. And so I am both. _The spirit of this other angel was exhausted, broken, but not sharp. Any edge, any anger, must have been worn away by the sea._ Humans pray to me for the gentle embrace of the dark, when they come to their ends, or when those they love do. And I answer with a siren’s song._

_Who are you?_ Aziraphale asked, afraid that this was too much knowledge; the wrong knowledge. Afraid that he may be punished yet more, for having it, for learning this, rather than the lesson he was meant to.

_Rahab is my name._ The Angel answered. 

Aziraphale asked no more of him, instead focusing on trying not to fear his inability to breathe, despite it always at the edges of his mind, like the dark halo that circled the edges of his vision, as he grew closer and closer to passing out. 

The denizens of Hell had Fallen for asking questions, but that seemed so much better than this fate– which came from refusing, from denying– 

There was a thought in there, a realization. The lesson he knew he was meant to glean from this. If he could just grasp it, he thought, he would be saved. He would be pulled out of this watery limbo and back to heaven. He would be put back into his body and allowed to breathe, allowed to apologise and take up the orders he’d been given and deliver on them. 

But he was stupid, his brain fogging with the cold and the fear and the

_Air. Need air, can’t breathe_– DYING–

Aziraphale gasped and pressed his hand to his chest, his eyes stinging. 

Crowley turned to him, surprised, and Aziraphale gasped again, unable to suck in a breath. He was on land, in his own body, and he was dying can’t breathe, going to end up like Rahab–

“Who’s Rah– never mind that, shh, shh, you can breathe fine, come on, in now. Suck air in, pull it into your lungs, there you go–” Crowley was kneeling next to him, between his couch and his coffee table, his hand on Aziraphale’s back and concern visible in his eyes where his sunglasses had slipped down his nose. 

“And out, let it go, alright, and in again, with me–” he made an exaggerated inhaling noise, and Aziraphale found himself following suit, gulping in air and feeling his head swimming out of its fog. 

When had he fallen onto the floor? Where was– why had he–?

He glanced at the telly, which was still on, still focusing on the water.

“Turn it off. _Please_.” He begged, and Crowley didn’t even have to snap, barely sparing the screen a glance. 

“Alright, it’s off. Deep breaths, angel, and then explain.” 

“It’s– there’s no vents. There’s no sea plants letting off gas, it’s– it’s an angel. An angel trapped in a dead body, chained to the sea floor. They– he, he betrayed Her, even before you fell, and… he’s dead. He’se dead and he’s still drowning and he’s all alone–”

Crowley’s brow was furrowed.

“How do you know all of this?” He asked. 

“_They trapped me with him_. As punishment.” Aziraphale answered, the words coming out on a keening wail, and Crowley’s mouth clicked shut with a snap, his lips forming a thin, hard line. 

“And I thought torture was one of ours.” He said gravely. He glanced back at the telly, then to Aziraphale. 

“You know,” he said slowly, the glimmer of an idea forming behind his eyes. “Hellfire can exist under water, in the right circumstances. It wouldn’t take much of it to destroy an angel completely.”

Aziraphale stared, uncomprehending. 

“I’m sure Hell would be pleased if I did.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could tell he was waiting for some response from him. “I could set Rahab free. No one deserves that, being down there for so long, trapped, alone–” He trailed off, voice softly horrified. 

Aziraphale blinked. 

“I– I can’t ask you to– I wish I could ask him– Rahab, I wish I knew what he wanted… I don’t know where he would– what happens to us, if we’re destroyed?” 

It was Crowley’s turn to stare. 

“We stop being trapped. We stop being watched. We turn to gas, and dust, and light– we go to the stars.” 

It all sounded beautiful. 

“Would you?” Aziraphale asked faintly, making a decision that he hoped was right, even if it was too late by a long, long time. He wasn’t even certain how long it had been since he’d been there, shared Rahab’s form.

Crowley’s eyes hooded, but he nodded. 

“I’ll do some research, but consider it done.” 

“I don’t–” Aziraphale drew in another shuddering breath. “I appreciate this, Crowley, but– I also never want to speak of it again.” 

Crowley nodded once more. 

“No updates, then. But I’ll handle it.” He said, and the promise felt like it weighed more than the water had, pressing down on his rotting lungs. 

It was a good thing, Aziraphale reflected, as he stood and readied himself to leave, not looking Crowley in the face, it was good that he didn’t sleep. If he did, he had a feeling his dreams would be of death, and rot, water, and not being able to breathe. 

He only hoped he’d done the right thing. 

Somehow, he couldn’t be sure.


	20. Trembling

Crowley had promised not to say anything, but he’d returned one day, not long after Aziraphale had remembered his time underwater, dripping and shaking and shaken. 

Once Aziraphale had told him about Rahab, it had been a quick, easy decision. A mercy mission from Aziraphale, one that would serve the dual purpose of making him look good at the home office and doing actual good, with the bonus of spiting Her plans, just as a cherry on top. 

It had not, however, gone according to _his_ plans. 

He’d taken a note out of Aziraphale’s book and put the hell fire in a thermos that he’d created for the purpose. He’d never tell him, but he’d even made it tartan– albeit in shades of black and grey and red. 

He’d loaded it up and put a quick water proofing miracle onto his clothes, then flown himself off to the Bermuda triangle. 

Knowing there was something that was once angelic under there made it easier to feel around for it, though it felt, as he probably should have expected, _wrong_. Dirty. Rotten. 

But not in the way hellish things did. Just… spoiled. 

He shuddered, tucked his wings in, and dove headfirst in a plummet that would have been reminiscent of his fall, had it ended with cold instead of hot. 

He opened his eyes underwater, the protective lenses sliding sideways and into place. 

He could smell and taste the rot here, and it was no wonder the sea life seemed sparse. 

_What are you?_

The thought pressed its way into his mind, big and powerful and undeniable. 

_They call us demons._ He answered, swallowing the fear that rose like bile in his throat. _We followed in your footsteps, but were punished differently. _

_You have no Grace._

Rahab seemed surprised by that, and in turn, Crowley was surprised to discover that he did. Rahab was still tied to God, in spite of this punishment. Somehow an angel still, despite being simultaneously _not_. And dead. And something More Than the other beings Crowley had come across.

_No Grace._ He agreed. _But I have come to offer mercy, if you want it._

_Oh?_ Rahab seemed interested, his attention focusing fully on Crowley now, and he quailed under the force of it, not having realized he lacked it before. 

_A friend of mine came here to you once, Aziraphale. He was being punished. They threatened to do to him what had been done to you._ Crowley had to squeeze his eyes shut to control his anger at that– how dare they even think he’d allow that to happen? He’d carry Aziraphale off the planet before he let him end up like this.

_I remember._ Rahab said. _Let me see you._

Crowley’s form drifted downwards, tugged along by a sudden, unscientifically explained current.

He found himself, in short order, on the sea floor, face to face with a masculine looking being. Dead, like Aziraphale had said. Unmoving, save for the way the water twisted his hair back and forth, giving an illusion of life that was shattered by those eyes. Staring, but devoid of color, of life. Inescapably dead. 

_And so you come to offer me mercy, do you?_ There was a dry chuckle in the back of Crowley’s mind._ You love him, the angel I knew before. But you fear he does not love you in return. Do you intend to sacrifice yourself, to be my companion for all of our days, to prove your loyalty to him?_ Rahab didn’t hide his disdain. _Pathetic._

Crowley flinched.

_You misunderstand. I’ve brought the means of a final death for you. I’m offering to set you free. _

_ Prideful little demon. Was that your downfall? Thinking you knew better than Her? _

Crowley felt the water moving around them, creating a vortex that pushed him closer to the angel’s corpse. 

_Do you think what happened to you is fair?_ Crowley cried out, fanning his wings out to resist the pull. 

_You are not so much a child to think that right and fair are the same. She made Her choice, and it was Good. This suits me– the power, the seclusion. I may sit here, stewing in my pride and my faith, rotting and healing in turn from the warring forces within me, until the end of this world and beyond. I do not need your pity, your mercy, your love– your weakness. Go back to your living angel, and do not return here again, or I will keep you, and make you my own. Your pride appeals to me, but I would need to drown the weakness from you. _

Shaking, Crowley pulled loose the thermos and swam closer. 

_In case you ever change your mind. I imagine you can figure out how on your own. _

Rahab’s laughter sounded like a roar, and he sent Crowley’s body rocketing upward, being shot out of the depths in much the same way he’d once been ejected from heaven. 

He gained the surface, then the sky, and flew home through the winter stormclouds, unable to stop himself from shaking. 

He landed at the bookshop and found himself knocking on the door with a trembling fist, which he quickly tucked back against his body and tried to will still. 

Aziraphale let him in, immediately making a noise of dismay over the state of him, and then another sound of surprise, when he realized that his wings were out. 

“Crowley! You haven’t been seen, have you?” He peeked out the door once Crowley was inside, as if he thought he’d see his neighbors pointing and staring. 

“Nah. Made sure no one’s paying me n-no attention.” His teeth were rattling, and Aziraphale shut the door and pulled the shades, then summoned a comforter from upstairs. 

“What’s had you out in this weather?” Aziraphale asked, coming forward to wrap the blanket around Crowley before he froze. 

Crowley tensed. 

“You– forgive me, but you smell rather like…”

“The ocean. And the dead. Yeah.” Crowley responded, hands coming up to finish the process of wrapping himself with the blanket. 

“The water’s all rain, though– the cold–” He shook, trembled under the weight of the latter, and Aziraphale seemed to recover enough to steer him towards a fireplace he was fairly certain hadn’t been there before. 

A fire roared to life in it, and Crowley didn’t hide the groan of gratitude that punched its way out of somewhere in his chest. He sank down in front of it, the bone cold and emotional exhaustion having taken their toll on him.

“Is Rahab– did he–?” Aziraphale started, but Crowley shook his head. 

“You said you didn’t want to know.” He reminded him. And what was more, he didn’t know how he could possibly explain the words that had seeped into his bones, more surely than even the cold had. 

_You fear he does not love you in return. _

The tremors shook him harder, now, and Aziraphale made a small noise, crouching to run his hands up and down Crowley’s arms. 

“You should miracle yourself dry– or at least get those wet clothes off. You’ll warm up quicker.” Aziraphale told him, voice so close to him, though it felt like he was still an eternity away. 

Crowley just blinked up at him, the shock having settled into his system and making him feel… Fuzzy, removed. 

And as soon as he forgot to focus on not doing it, the trembling turned to full on shakes, shivers that wracked all of him. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and with a gesture Crowley’s clothing had been replaced by something loose and warm. 

It only helped on the shallowest level, but even so, Crowley was grateful. 

Aziraphale was too, it seemed, because he wrapped his arms around the bundle of blanket and demon and whispered a quiet thanks.

That set Crowley off shaking again, hating that this was, in its own way, almost a lie to Aziraphale. 

He hadn’t done it. But Rahab hadn’t wanted it, so it wasn’t– he’d done the right thing, he thought. He wondered if that was why he felt so terrible. But Aziraphale was here and holding him, and– he wrapped his wings loosely around the both of them, and the angel miracled them dry.

“I’m not afraid of you, you know.” Aziraphale said, sometime later, and Crowley hadn’t even considered that he might be– but it made sense. He thought Crowley had killed a powerful old being, something like an angel, but not and more…

“You’ll never have to be.” He promised, and Aziraphale burrowed his head against him. 

Together, they stared in silence into the flames, soaking up the warmth and comfort of the other while lost in their own thoughts. 

Slowly, the trembling receded, and left nothing but exhaustion in its wake. 

Crowley slept like that, safe in his Angel’s arms, sheltering them both from everything else.


	21. Laced Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be continued in the next chapter.

Crowley was fantastically, tragically committed to aesthetic. 

None of this would have happened, had he not been. 

It all came down to absinthe. 

Crowley’d managed not to have any, during the height of its popularity, primarily because he’d been nursing a wounded ego from a run in with Aziraphale’s morality-slash-temper, and he knew that where the brightest poets and artists and writers were, he’d find the angel. 

Unfortunately, at the time, that was also where you’d find the drink. 

And sure, he could have gotten his hands on some, but why bother, when there were other alcohols in abundance, and ones that hadn’t been medicinal to start? 

To be honest, he didn’t trust anything a human doctor claimed could cure ills, even if it did end up being sold in bars. 

That said, the moment it was banned, his interest became a good deal more piqued. Nothing was quite so tempting as what authorities said you couldn’t have. He knew that better than anyone. 

And so he’d tracked it down. Oooh, illegal absinthe, only drunk by the poshest, the wickedest, the most adventurous. Poison green, and rumored to make you see things– Crowley couldn’t argue with the marketing campaign. It was right up his alley.

And as he and Aziraphale were currently fairly close, he thought this was the perfect time to indulge. 

So he gathered what he needed: edgy, suggestive, outright tempting outfit; invitation to the most difficult to find club; one angel, reservations for the evening, and his flair for the dramatic, which, fortunately for him, he never went without. 

He knew he liked the place the moment he walked in. It felt like where sex parties might happen, very dungeon-y, stone wall treatment and yellow lights that cast each table in just enough illumination to see by. Dark. Mysterious. 

It also had seating that managed what very little of his own furniture could, and straddled the line between imposing and incredibly comfortable. He’d be suspicious about Aziraphale’s hand in the latter, if he hadn’t been the first one into the club, and the first to sit down. 

Once they were seated, the order he’d placed ahead of their arrival came out. Wine and a charcuterie board for the angel, absinthe for him. He’d made sure they thought him enormously wealthy, important, and influential. 

“Goodness, I thought that was illegal now.” Aziraphale commented, already placing aged beef on a tiny round of sourdough. 

“Human laws.” Crowley scoffed, adjusting his slouch for maximum visual indolence. 

He was actually very excited for this, and glad that his favorite audience was here to watch him being dreadfully fashionable and impressive.

The drink itself was pretty enough, the green a lovely shade and the sugar cube delightfully alight, which, when he held it up, lit him infernally from below. It was all very theatrical, and he knew Aziraphale was impressed, even if he wouldn’t say as much. 

“I haven’t had any myself in a long time,” Aziraphale mentioned, off hand, and Crowley wrinkled his nose, temporarily annoyed at the reminder. 

“Yes, but that was when it was allowed. I’ve never tried it.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he looked so incongruently delighted that it gave Crowley pause. 

“Oh, in that case, I’m so glad you invited me! Give it a go, it’s something quite unique.” 

The earnest urging somewhat ruined the performative mood, but of course he should have realized that Aziraphale would be entirely too indulgent in Crowley’s experiments with flavor– goodness knew it was the angel’s favorite vice. 

Crowley blew out the fire and dropped what was left of the sugar cube into the drink below. He swirled it slightly, raised the glass towards Aziraphale in a small salute, and knocked it back. 

The flavor was awful. Noxious, almost, and worse, it stung, burning its way down his throat. 

He completely ruined the aesthetic by coughing, gasping, and dry retching. 

“Really, it’s not all that ba–” Aziraphale began, but Crowley had already realized what was happening. 

“Anise.” He gasped, hands coming up to grab his throat, as if that would help. 

“Yes, it’s a rather distinct flavor, I–”

“Anise _for exorcisms_.” Crowley choked out, and Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide and round. 

“Sober up.” He instructed sharply, and Crowley did his best, refilling the drained glass, but it was too late– the effects lingered, even once the anise itself was out of him. 

Crowley’s eyes swung wildly around the bar, and lit on the bartender– a woman, stylish and chic, who was mixing the drinks that the waiter asked for. She had an ankh around her neck and a protection sigil tattooed on her shoulder, and bore all the hallmarks of a modern pagan.

His eyes narrowed. 

“Witch.” He nodded in her direction. 

Aziraphale groaned.

“Of course, it wouldn’t work if the person using it didn’t believe– what can I do for you? Shall we leave?”

Crowley had broken out into a very un-aesthetic sweat, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice he seemed a bit… blurry round the edges. 

“Oh dear– hang on.” Aziraphale said, mouth firming into a determined line as he stood from the table. 

He approached the bar, breaking some unspoken taboo of service, he was sure, and flagged down the witchy bartender. 

“Excuse me,” He began politely, “But I’m an angel, you’re a witch, and I believe your drink is in the process of exorcising my demon friend. I don’t suppose you have something to counteract it?” 

“I– what?” She looked around the bar, eyes lighting on Crowley and widening. “Is that– what.” 

Aziraphale sighed.

“You believe in anise as a demon banishing agent, and it is doing its best as a result. But I must ask you to reverse the effects, please.”

“I don’t– I didn’t actually think demons were real! And that shouldn’t have worked– it’s alcohol!” The woman protested. 

Aziraphale gestured back at Crowley.

“Perhaps you should have considered that before memorizing ways to be rid of them. Now, is there a means of– I don’t know, binding a demon to a body, or allowing a spirit in or something? I can promise you the body is his own, he isn’t simply having a ride along.” 

Aziraphale was somewhat sympathetic, naturally, but he didn’t precisely have time to waste on this. 

“Now, please.” He demanded, and the tone of his voice spurred her into action. 

“Uh– Cinnamon for evocation of a spirit and quick success–” She pulled Fireball from the shelf and poured some quickly into a glass. 

“Dandelion for grounding and healing and Burdock for counter magick–” A slosh of No Name gin followed. She ran her hands along the bottles, thinking quickly. “Oh! Björk is birch bark, perfect!” 

She poured while she talked. “That’s new beginnings, psychic protection, and binding.” She looked at what she’d made and wrinkled her nose. 

“That’s going to be gross.” She told Aziraphale, but handed him the drink just the same. 

“I hardly think he’ll mind, so long as he’s around to complain about it.” He called back, already bearing the drink towards where crowley was visibly shaking apart at the seams. 

Aziraphale paused, unwilling to just pour it down his throat when there was nothing to specify that Crowley was the spirit to be bound. 

Thinking fast, he dipped his finger in the liquid and traced it over Crowley’s tattoo– he couldn’t remember the proper summoning sigil at the moment, but that ought to devote the drink to Crowley well enough, according to the bartender’s beliefs. He just hoped that she truly believed that this would do the trick. 

“One way to find out,” he murmured. “Down the hatch, old friend.” He plugged Crowley’s corporation’s nose, tilted his head back, and let the liquid drizzle into his mouth. 

He swallowed, thank goodness, and Aziraphale hovered there, waiting for a response. 

Slowly, Crowley stopped vibrating quite literally out of his skin, and leaned back, panting, against his chair. 

“That–” he groused, “Was disgusting.”

Aziraphale let out a relieved huff and turned to look back at the bartender, waving at her gratefully. 

She gave him a shaky smile and flashed him a double thumbs up. 

“Wine?” He asked, turning back to Crowley, only to find that he had already finished half the glass. He looked on, amused, and made himself a sourdough round with meat and cheese. 

Crowley surfaced for air and the glass refilled miraculously as he passed it back to Aziraphale. 

“I’m not sure whether to tip the witch or curse her.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“Now, none of that.” 

Crowley made a face. 

“I hate to say it, but maybe we should go. I’m not feeling… quite right.” Crowley spoke slowly, and though he seemed solid enough, he sounded a touch distant, too. 

Aziraphale sat a little more upright in his seat.

“Shall I go ask for more help from our friend at the bar?” 

“Nah. Think I’m coming down with the exorcism flu. Happens sometimes.”

Aziraphale frowned, wondering when the last time it’d happened was, but stood just the same and offered his hand to help Crowley to his feet. 

He waved, settling the bill with several large notes tucked neatly beneath the meat board, and managed not to look longingly at it as he helped his friend out of the bar.


	22. Hallucination

The exorcism flu, as Crowley called it, turned out to be a rather violent sort of affliction. 

Aziraphale barely managed to get Crowley back to the bookstore– he’d had to force the demon to pull over and, against all of his complaints, had managed to get him loaded into the backseat of the Bentley. After that, politely asking the car to return them to the shop had been the easy part. And the Bentley was incredibly loyal– once Aziraphale had explained what was wrong with its master, it took them home with perfect politeness and immaculate obedience of the traffic laws. 

Aziraphale had had to carry Crowley inside, another indignity he probably would have protested, had he been in any fit state to do so. Worryingly, though, he wasn’t. 

In fact, Crowley wasn’t protesting or responding to anything happening around him. Which was worrisome from someone as observant and reliably pithy as he was. Worrisome, too, was the sweat rolling down his forehead. Normally Crowley would never allow his body to do anything so patently unchic. But his hair was plastered to his face, and his eyes were unfocused in the lamplight of the bookshop. 

Once Aziraphale had gotten Crowley laid out on the couch, he got a fire going and summoned an extra blanket. Crowley protested in a series of disjointed, disgruntled mumblings, but seemingly lacked the strength the shove the blankets away. 

“Now, you’ve had a fair amount of alcohol tonight, and that’s on top of your near discorporation, so I think it’d be best if you sobered up, while you still can. I’ll fetch a bucket for you.” 

He bustled off, returning with a trashbin, ready to collect the offending liquors, as well as a bone china teacup with warm bone broth– something he knew humans drank to help when they got their kind of flu. 

Crowley, upon seeing him, sat bolt upright, grabbed for the bucket, and got the liquor into it– albeit not in the way Aziraphale had intended. 

Still, when he collapsed back into the couch, he seemed to be a little less tense, a little more relaxed. Or perhaps merely exhausted enough to have passed out. 

Aziraphale sat the broth nearby with a tiny blessing on it to keep it warm, and situated himself in his usual seat, the better to keep an eye on his friend. 

A few hours passed, and Aziraphale had found a book to distract himself with, until Crowley woke with a strained cry. 

Immediately, he set aside his reading and hurried to the demon’s side. 

“Crowley?” He asked, and Crowley whimpered, his eyes sliding over to Aziraphale, then going out of focus, still glassy, his face still flush with fever. 

“I can’t feel you.” Crowley whispered, obviously horrified, and Azriaphale furrowed his brow and took Crowley’s hand in both of his own. 

“My dear boy, I’m right here?” He offered, wondering what he could do to help. 

“You’ve forsssaken me.” Crowley said, attempting to take his hand back. Aziraphale felt his eyes going wide in response. 

“Never!” He protested. “I wouldn’t. I won’t. I’ll be right here until you feel better.” 

Crowley scoffed. 

“You took my life from me.” He said, sounding bitter and wounded, and rolling himself deeper into the blankets, until they were up to his ears. “You took my home, and my name, and my past and destroyed my future, and now I can’t– I can’t ever be enough for him.” Crowley’s voice was muffled, and more than that it was fading out, turning back into a mumble near the end. 

Abruptly, Aziraphale realized that Crowley wasn’t talking to him so much as having mistaken him for Her. His fever had gone so high that he was hallucinating, taking Aziraphale’s own diluted godliness for Her presence.

He didn’t know what to do– any response seemed blasphemous. But Crowley sounded so deeply sad, and he couldn’t leave him like that. 

“Now that isn’t true. You’re enough. You– you’re good at– You have so many commendations– you’re more than enough for him.” Aziraphale managed, then pushed on, hoping it would help: “Clearly, Satan is pleased with you.” 

Crowley popped his head out of the blankets again, glaring balefully at Aziraphale without seeing him. 

“You made me love him.” He accused. “You made me love someone who can’t love me back. ‘S worse’n the fall. ‘S downright cruel. And here I thought you were a _merciful_ God.” He scoffed again, and Aziraphale frowned.

He hadn’t realized that was part of it. But then, why else should the demons be loyal to hell, if they didn’t love their master like the Angels loved Her?

Aziraphale sighed. 

“It’s ineffable.” He whispered, and placed his hand atop Crowley’s sweat damp curls. ‘Sleep now.” He commanded, working a miracle into it. “Sleep, and dream of something that would make you happy. And when you wake, you’ll be well again.” 

Crowley’s eyes slipped closed, and a small smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. 

“Aziraphale.” He mumbled, and the angel smiled in return, glad that his efforts were already making some difference. 

He sat back in his chair to keep watch for the rest of the night, and on into the morning.


	23. Bleeding Out

This was stupid. This whole bloody mess was stupid. 

And what was worse, it was getting increasingly _more_ bloody, no matter what Crowley tried to do to stop it. He’d given his demonic healing the old occult try, but it seemed there was only so much he could do. 

“Crowley!” He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale’s voice, of the sound of his knees hitting the ground next to him. 

“Oh hey Angel.” He waved, or tried– his hand did a loose floppy thing, bit like a fish on dry land. 

“Oh Crowley, what’ve they done to you?” Aziraphale wailed, distraught.

“Cut me up pretty bad. Or pretty good, depending on who you ask.” He said, going for heroic and brave and suave. 

One liners needed work. 

He made a mental note to prepare some to have on hand, in case of future discorporations. 

“Can’t you heal yourself?” Aziraphale asked, his pristine white hands doing a complicated dance over Crowley’s body as he reached for one wound, changed his mind, and went for another. Crowley didn’t even feel when he did touch him, which was a shame; he usually made a point to catalogue every moment of contact. 

He was losing feeling, though. Everywhere. 

“Nuh. Too much. Gonna discorporate.” He sighed, already hating what he knew would come next. Hell, and the entire process of leaving it. “This’s the worst. ‘S _cold_.”

“But it took you years to come back last time!” Aziraphale protested, pulling his hands away, no longer so pristine.

Crowley gave him a rakish grin, even though he couldn’t pick out the expression on Aziraphale’s face too well anymore through the bleariness. 

“Gonna miss me, Angel?” He asked. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” 

He could hear the determination in Aziraphale’s voice, and then he saw light and felt– pain. 

It’d be sweet and almost amusing, how hard Aziraphale was fighting this, if the battlefield wasn’t _every demonic nerve ending that Crowley possessed_. His spine arched, which caused a horrific squelching sound as the loose and damaged bits inside of him shifted around, and he could feel a wave of blood that he couldn’t afford to lose come gushing forth.

He wanted to laugh. But all he could do was cry out through the pain.

“Nguuhhgh– Stop, please, please, ‘Ziraful, st’p.” He was panting, gritting the words out through clenched teeth, and all at once the power that had been flowing into him cut out. 

Aziraphale hit the ground beside him, and Crowley grimaced. 

“You okay?” He asked, voice gone croaky and throat sore from, apparently, screaming. He hadn’t meant to do that. Ruined his whole cool vibe. 

“I’ll be fine, you ridiculous–!” Aziraphale cut himself off, obviously realizing just who he was being crotchety at. “Did I–?”

“Healed me a bit. I dunno. Feels like. Still slipping but… slower now?” 

Aziraphale made a strangled sound, low in his throat, and Crowley heard the tears in his voice as he struggled back up to his knees. 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry Crowley, I didn’t mean to– to prolong it. Give me a moment, I’ll try again.” 

Crowley snorted.

“One, don’t ‘pologize. Every second I’m here’s one more before I have to go to hell. Two, just don’t. Let me go. ‘S just a body. I’ll be back.” 

Aziraphale hesitated, his form swaying on the edge of Crowley’s vision. 

“I’ll stay with you, however long it takes. Is there anything I can do?” 

Crowley was embarrassed by the high pitched whine that worked its way out of him. 

“You don’t gotta. Can’t be pretty. Gonna start smelling b’fore too long.” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke in a tone that allowed no room for argument. “If you think for one moment that you don’t already smell…” He had a tiny attempt at a smile on his face, and Crowley laughed, though he regretted it a moment later. 

“That’s what you c’n do for me.” Crowley said, his tongue feeling thick and his eyelids getting heavy. “Gimme a smile to take with me? Not many of those where I’m going.” 

Aziraphale, who had done a fantastic job until then of keeping it together, let out a sob. 

Crowley’s brows furrowed, and his eyes closed. He wasn’t strong enough to keep them open any longer. 

_Well_, he thought. _Guess it’s a no on smiles, then. _

_Maybe next go round._


	24. Secret Injury

Between he and Aziraphale, they were remarkably strong. They lacked human limits, and they could work literal wonders. 

But there were too many of them. 

It was overwhelming, and it felt like he was buried under a writhing mass of limbs. 

Because he was. 

This was a first, working together like this– the first time they’d seen one another in ages, probably the first time agreeing on anything– Crawly wondered how Aziraphale was justifying this in his mind. But it also didn’t matter, just at the moment. 

Couldn’t. 

They were bearing precious cargo. 

Over the rain and the thunder, he could hear tiny voices crying out, not in unison, but in a mess of howls and sobs and shrieks– crying for their parents, crying for salvation, crying of discomfort and hunger and a thousand other things. And he couldn’t blame them. 

The world was unfair. God was unfair. And their lives, as they’d known them, for the short time they’d been on earth– those were gone. Finished. Their families dead, the land swallowed up by a vast swath of ocean that Crawly didn’t think they’d ever see the end of– and the rain kept coming. 

“The ark!” Aziraphale cried, pointing as best as he could, and Crawly immediately headed for the bobbing spot of brown in the distance. 

They’d lost it doing passes over the plains, gathering up all the smalls they saw. It had taken time, and more than once Crawly had had to pluck an adult off of Aziraphale, where they’d clung in a wild attempt at saving themselves. 

Crawly knew better, though; however Aziraphale was making this right in his mind, he was convinced that She knew best, and that the people She’d chosen to kill deserved it, somehow.  
Except the children.

They’d been flying for the better part of the day when Crawly finally got the children off of him and piled onto the roof of the ark. 

He summoned up a miracle– to be sure no one would fall off– and turned around, leaving them there to fly back and meet Aziraphale, who was lagging behind and dipping horrifyingly low over the water. 

Crawly took the bawling bundle that swung beneath him, lightening his load and hoisting it up above the threat of the waves. 

Aziraphale tossed him a grateful– if tense– smile, and together they landed on the ark.

Crawly, arms finally free, reached up to wipe the rain off of his face and found himself shaking. 

“Miracle some warmth and dryness and keep the sound inside– I’m going to go and raid the stores for food and milk, see if we can’t sneak aboard.” 

“Wait– you want me to stay with all of…” Aziraphale looked around at their little troupe, looking overwhelmed. 

“Well, I’d swap with you, but_ I’m_ going to go _steal_ from God’s chosen.” Crawly said slowly. “I won’t be long. You try and do an… an inventory. How many of them, the state they’re in. Who needs what. I’ll help as soon as I get back.” 

Mollified, or at least chastened, Aziraphale nodded, and Crawly dropped down to the deck below, becoming a snake as he went, so that as soon as scale met planks, he was off and well disguised. 

It was obvious where the animals were– he could smell all the different flavors of fear, and were he a different sort of demon, he’d be pleased by it. Probably be drunk off of it, he thought. Instead he used it as a guide– finding himself beside the cows much more easily than expected. 

Before he could resume a form with limbs, though, he felt a sharp and heavy hoof fall on his serpentine body, and did his utmost to writhe free. 

It hurt, a sharp sort of burning, grinding pain, and when he returned to a human shape, he could feel the pain still there. 

Ribs, he realized, peeking into his robes. At least a few. Broken, or crushed or– didn’t matter. It was painful. 

And demons hadn’t figured out how to heal themselves yet. They’d only barely recovered enough from the fall to figure out how to trade one skin out for another. 

Still, he had something he needed to do. 

He took up a nearby clay pot and skirted around the cow that had landed the blow, stopping instead by another who had udders that swung low and heavy with milk. 

He didn’t, he realized, see any baby cows around. 

He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. 

Damn Her. Damn Her straight to Hell, if only She could suffer the way She made others do.

The cow, at least, let him milk her easily enough. This, she knew. The storm and the tossing of the boat, not so much, but this… the motions made him almost nauseous, his torso pain protesting fiercely, and he glared at the other cow, but it needed to get done. 

It was warm in here, Crawly realized suddenly, the rhythmic hiss of milk into the pot not stopping. Whatever else one could say for the Noah clan, they knew their boat building. It was quiet, the storm outside muffled by the layers of wood and hay. 

Once the pot had an inch or so of milk in the bottom, Crawly set it aside and worked a quick miracle– multiplying it into a full pot. He felt a twinge in his internal being– he’d been asking a lot lately. More occult miracles or whatever he was meant to call them, than he’d ever done all at once before.

He ignored the pain and the twinge and carried the milk deeper into the ark, surprised at how roomy it was. There were empty stalls, even– no doubt some of the less dangerous animals had clustered together, leaving more than enough room for everyone up top to come down here. 

Plan made, he sat the pot in the perfect stall– far to the rear of the vessel, far from the stairs and all the animals that grouped together nearer to the fresh air that came from them. 

He returned topside, aware that he needed to find other food, but also aware that the Angel’s miracles might be running as low as his were at this point. He needed to check in.

He regained the roof, glad that the rain and thunder would hide the quality of his voice. 

“Room inside– With the animals. Dry and warm.” He reached for the closest children, then glanced over to the edge. It was a long way from there to the deck. 

“You go down, I’ll pass them to you. We have twenty-three, total. Six infants.” Aziraphale bundled up the blanket they’d had the smallest ones nestled in, and handed it to Crawly, who just nodded. 

Getting the children down hurt, but he hid it as well as he could. Aziraphale didn’t stop handing them off, at any rate, so at least he had the constant distraction of having to keep up. 

Thank goodness they were clingy; once he had them all on the deck, they did a quick headcount, and no one had wandered off. Better still, most of them could walk; the couple who couldn’t were swept into his and Aziraphale’s arms, and Crawly ignored the way their tiny legs wrapped around him, and dug the injured ribs deeper into the parts of him that hurt. He was also grateful for the mops of hair that he could hide his grimace in as he brushed past Aziraphale and led the way down, to warmth and safety and milk. 

Children safely deposited, he reached automatically for his ribs, but saw Aziraphale staring, and turned the gesture into a nervous straightening of his robes instead. 

“I uh– now we’re here, I’ll go find something heartier than that.” He gestured at the pot, and smiled at one of the older girls, who was dipping the edge of her shirt in the milk and letting a babe suckle on it, only to repeat the process shortly thereafter. 

“You have enough left in you to make more if I only get a bit?” 

Aziraphale nodded. 

“I’ll see to getting this lot sorted and settled. Thank you, Crawly.” 

Crawly could feel the blood rushing to his face and quickly looked down and turned away, though the speed of his movement was a bad idea for his injury. He hissed softly, but walked fast so that no one could notice. 

He would have liked to become a snake again for this, and slip into the occupied bits of the boat, but thankfully there were store rooms without people in them. He found grains, and almost laughed– did they think they would be able to cook it? The whole place was wooden and wet, so good luck to them there. 

He and the angel, on the other hand… 

He purloined a bowl of oats and a couple of eggs, grabbed a small bread roll and tucked it in his robes, and, grinning, picked a ripe red apple from a pile. 

If the angel made several of each of these, it’d do for a first meal after the storm. They could tuck away some leftovers and make them stay good, and keep having more of the same, if things got tricky with sneaking around, too.

And with any luck, maybe tomorrow, he could add some fish to the offering. 

All said and done, this wasn’t half so hard as he’d expected. And they hadn’t been struck down yet, so, maybe God didn’t even mind. 

Or, She couldn’t figure out a way of doing it without hurting Noah and crew in the process. Either way, Crawly was glad of it. 

He gave his bounty to the angel and took over the crying babe he held in his lap. 

“Your turn,” he murmured, rocking the poor little guy and holding him gingerly to his chest. 

The kid calmed down right off, but there was another ruckus brewing. 

The older kids, seeing there wasn’t much food, had all crowded in to get first dibs.

“Now, children, if you wait a moment there will be more than enough for everyone.” Aziraphale sounded frazzled, and Crawly realized quite suddenly that the angel had no idea how to handle kids. This was… delightful. 

“Stand back– Aziraphale’s going to perform a miracle!” He told them, piling on the false excitement and watching as it spread, nearly as infectious as their earlier fear had been.

With all those eyes on him– including Crawly’s– Aziraphale’s frazzledness turned into almost a sort of surprised preening. 

“Ah– yes, well– oooh~!” He waved his hands over the food, reached up, and pulled down power, heating what needed it and multiplying all of it in a blink. This time, when the children fell upon the pile of food, Aziraphale let them, merely stepping aside.

“I think it was the ‘ooh’ that sold it.” Crawly murmured, sidling closer with his now-snoozing- armful. He did not comment on the surge of warmth that had formed in his chest, watching the children gasping in awe and delight at Aziraphale’s antics, and the way his face lit up when he smiled and meant it. 

He wasn’t entirely certain it wasn’t internal bleeding, after all. 

“Well, and thank you for the ah– announcement. And the food. And the shelter.” 

The angel’s face went a little pinched, obviously concerned about the morality of taking advantage of what Crawly had offered. 

“Suits us both– I’m thwarting the Almighty’s plans of infanticide, and you’re protecting the innocent. All in the job description, eh?”

Crawly found his lips tugged upwards as Aziraphale’s face relaxed, seemingly soothed by that line of thought. 

“How long d’you suppose we’ll be stuck in here, then? Awful lot of water, that. Won’t dry up particularly quickly.” He changed the subject before Aziraphale had a chance to poke too many holes in his logic. 

“Oh, I don’t know– I told you about the rainbow thing, but it wasn’t very clear how long between now and then. She’s been really into 40 days and nights lately; I shouldn’t wonder if it was right around there.” 

Crawly groaned. 

“That’s a long time to keep kids amused and quiet.” He looked over at the children, huddled together, starting to dry, but still looking incredibly bedraggled. 

The oldest girl was building a series of nests for the smallest babes, unspooling some of the grasses that had clearly been harvested with the intent of feeding the beasts they were sharing this area with. 

She draped the blanket over the whole mess, and the other kids, those old enough to hold the infants, placed their tiny burdens in each depression. 

Crawly drifted over towards them. 

“That was some good thinking. What’s your name?” 

The girl looked up at him, then stood and held her arms out to receive the toddler he held. 

“I’m Jael. This is my brother, Tobias.” She looked around at the rest of them. “Is there anyone else left?” 

“Noah and his family, who built this boat– they’re all alright. And… perhaps other boats, others who… reached higher ground?” Aziraphale was a terrible liar, and Crawly thought he should probably tell him so. But not right now. 

“We won’t know for certain until the storm lets up.” Crawly said softly. “In the meantime, we’ll need to work together to keep comfortable and quiet. Noah doesn’t know we’re here, and I don’t know what he’d do if he found out.”

“My father says he’s a madman.” A slightly younger boy piped up.

“Perhaps your father’s right. And who might you be?” Crawly asked, butting in before Aziraphale could defend God’s chosen madman. 

Crawly put his hands on his knees and bent down to be closer to this boy’s eye level– upsetting his ribs in the process.

“I’m Amos.” He said proudly, and Crawly smiled through the wave of discomfort. 

“Good to meet you, Amos. Your job is to let us know when everyone starts getting hungry, so we can make or get more food, alright? Can you do that?”

Amos nodded, and suddenly, much like they’d fallen in on the food, everyone was clamouring for jobs. 

Crawly traded a quick glance with the angel, and set about getting to know their new little family. 

Once the children had all settled in, piling together like puppies under blankets summoned by the angel, Crawly lay himself out, wincing but doing his best to hide it. 

“Do you sleep?” Aziraphale asked, voice earnest and curious. 

“Yeah.” Crawly responded, the word more of a grunt as he rolled to look his erstwhile enemy, now conspirator, in the eyes. “Feels good when you’re tired, when it’s been a long day. Good way to keep your strength up. You don’t?” He followed up, belatedly realizing that he must not– not if he was that curious about it.

“I don’t. One must always be alert, in case of… evil.” 

Crawly could hear the doubt in Aziraphale’s voice, and to him, it sounded like victory. Or a tiny taste of it, anyway. He wasn’t sure he wanted real victory; he had no doubt that would end in Aziraphale’s fall, and he wouldn’t wish that on anyone. 

“Well, seeing as how I’m the only evil around, and I’m about to sleep, you can relax if you’d like. Wake me if you need help with any of that lot.” 

Crawly nodded, pointing at them with his chin. 

“You are… surprisingly good with them. Where did you learn that?” Aziraphale asked, clearly not understanding the necessary processes for falling asleep. 

“I hung out with those first few kids a bit. Cain and Abel.” And that tore him up, still, more than a little, but he thought he hid that well, too. 

“Ah.” Aziraphale sounded judgmental, and Crawly scowled. 

“Don’t go getting ideas, none of that had anything to do with me. I just told them stories– none of which involved killing anything.”

Aziraphale looked doubtful, but Crawly huffed and shrugged. 

“Believe me– or don’t– I’m not gonna hurt these kids. You can see to that. But now– sleep. ‘Night.” 

He rolled back over, signaling the end of the conversation, and carefully didn’t wince when Aziraphale sighed. 

Served him right, the adorable featherbrained git. 

He didn’t get to sleep long, jolting awake with a pained cry to find Aziraphale nudging him with his foot– right in Crawly’s broken ribs. 

He pressed his hand to the ache and sat up, groggy, to see that there was a baby in the angel’s arms, one who was obviously screaming– it had gone all but red in the face– but was completely soundless.

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Aziraphale said, holding it out to him. 

Crawly got up and took the child, pressing it to his shoulder on the slightly less painful side. 

“Shh, shh shh shhh,” He murmured in its ear, bouncing slightly as he checked to see if the child had soiled itself– and she had. He miracled that away, not keen to touch it, and felt another twinge– he was still low on power after everything else that day. Or maybe being punished for using it the way he had; he wasn’t fully sure how that worked yet.

It wasn’t that he was squeamish– he was a demon, after all– but being a demon had certain benefits. Like not having to deal with this sort of thing personally. And being able to make the angel deal with the rest of the soiled nappies. 

“Check and see that the others are all dry and clean in the pants?” He asked Aziraphale, who nodded and headed off to his task, clearly as glad to have something to do as the children had been, a few hours before. Even if it was less than glamorous. 

The baby on Crawly’s shoulder was still going off, so he pulled on the edge of his robe, dunked it in the milk, and set to feeding her the way the other kids had shown them to earlier. 

She took to it immediately, and quieted down while she suckled. 

He let out a sigh of relief, and sat, cradling her in his arms until she’d had her fill, and then he held her vertically again and patted her back, certain that she’d sucked down at least as much air as she had sustenance. 

Aziraphale removed the silencing around her, just in time for them to hear an astoundingly large belch, for such a little lady. A couple of the other children who had awakened with all the movement tittered in response. 

“There, that’s better, isn’t it?” Crawly asked, pulling her away to look her in the eye. She smiled, waved her little fist, and promptly vomited all over him. 

He made a face and handed her off to Aziraphale. 

“Why don’t you just miracle it away?” The angel asked, watching as Crawly grabbed at a handful of hay and began dabbing the mess off of himself with it. He grimaced as he upset his injury again, and rolled his eyes. 

“I’m out. Exhausted. No more miracles left in me. Or cut off. Either way–” He told the angel a little warily. He didn’t think he’d try and discorporate him right now– not when he obviously needed help with the children, but there was still something terrifying about being vulnerable around your enemy. 

Aziraphale was swaying in place, holding the child who was already beginning to drift off. 

“Then remove it, and I’ll clean it for you.”

“Remove it?” Crawly squeaked, somewhat undignified. 

“Well, I don’t want to risk accidentally miracling you and– you know, doing damage.” 

Crawly couldn’t think of a good argument against it, but he turned around, hoping to preserve some modesty in the process– and hide the other reason he was quietly at Aziraphale’s mercy.

Still as the robe came off, Aziraphale gasped. 

“Crawly?” He asked, voice shaky, and Crawly turned a little to look over his shoulder, though it pained him to do so. 

“What, you never seen scales before?” He joked, but Aziraphale’s eyes slid round to see the front of him, which was probably much worse. 

“What happened, why didn’t you– oh.” Aziraphale moved the child over to its empty little nest, and returned to steer Crawly to face him, his eyes skating over his ribs. 

“You’re hurt, and you’ve been using your miracles on the children, instead of healing yourself.” He said softly, almost reverently. 

Crawly, uncomfortable beneath the angel’s unwavering attention, felt his face growing red and, to his horror, his flush traveled down his neck and chest, slipping past where he kept the robes held loosely around his waist. 

“In fairness, not sure I know how to heal myself. Not really something they teach _uss demonsss_.” He leaned on the word, reminding Aziraphale that he’d been accusing him of planning to hurt these kids not long before. 

Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look, as if he hadn’t earned that reminder.

“Well. Let’s get your robe clean for now– just hold it out, there.” He pulled his hand downwards, as if tugging on a string tied to a rafter, and the milkspit vanished. 

“And tomorrow, or as soon as you feel up to it, I’ll see if I can’t teach you. It can’t be all that different, after all– you were an angel once.” 

“Hm.” Crawly said in lieu of thanks, and looked away, embarrassed and pleased and not certain why. 

“Might be helpful. Never know when you might need to mend a scraped knee for one of our new friends. Here,” Aziraphale said, guiding him back towards the space he’d claimed as his own earlier. “You rest. I imagine I should be able to manage for a while, now.”

Crawly nodded, not sure how he was meant to respond to such… fondness, such kindness. So he did what he did best, and closed his eyes to hide from his problems, if only for a few more hours.

They opened again, shortly, when one of the more daring youngsters crept closer and lifted his arm, snuggling up against Crawly’s chest ever so gently. 

More followed, until he found himself surrounded by children, half of whom were using him as a fairly pointy pillow. 

Helplessly, he looked up and met Aziraphale’s entirely too fond eyes, and promptly slammed his own eyes closed again. 

Sleep, he decided. 

Things would be less confusing in the morning.


	25. Humiliation

Aziraphale liked churches, liked the community of people with their intentions to do good in the world, and their weekly or more frequent repetitions of their pledge to the cause. And there were other benefits, of course– feeling close to Her, despite simultaneously being full of her love and as far from her as he’d ever been, stationed on Earth. 

There were bake sales as well, luncheons, dances… but above all else, what Aziraphale loved were the choirs. 

Humans, raising their voices together in worship and in joy and in gratitude– it was so beautiful, even just as a concept, but when it was executed well– well, Aziraphale was loathe to use the term Heavenly, and he rather disliked the implications about which was better… 

But of course, that was rather the problem, wasn’t it? 

And that was why Heaven’s choir had come to sort him out. 

Aziraphale had offered to see to locking the building up, seeing as how the preacher’s wife had just gone into labor. It was no problem, really, he’d assured him. 

And it wasn’t. Some might feel uncomfortable in a church alone at night, a sense that they shouldn’t be there. But if anyone belonged, as an angel, he ought to. 

He was surprised, then, but not afraid, when he suddenly heard voices coming from the choir loft. 

It was beautiful and sudden and unexpected, and, he noted with some confusion, he was unable to pick out the voices of any of his neighbors. 

And so he wandered upstairs to speak to the– he supposed the would be called pranksters, were the prank less lovely. 

Upon arriving, though, he realized he ought to have known. 

He found himself face to face with a handful of virtues– the least of the Heavenly host. Exactly the sort you found in churches, quite literally preaching to the choir, as it were, though they used to give hope to those who had none and to encourage lost lambs back to the Lord’s meadows. 

Still, angelic meetings were rare enough, and he couldn’t help but feel some joy at seeing– and hearing– them. 

“Virtues!” He greeted, enthusiastic and polite. “That was lovely– to what do I owe the pleasure? Is there some special occasion I should know about?” 

The virtues all smiled at him, their eyes twinkling with heavenly light, and their faces all fixed in the same expression. 

“We come because we sensed someone drifting away from God’s light.” One spoke, voice cheerful and chipper, and altogether chirpy. 

“O-oh!” Aziraphale didn’t consciously raise his hand to his collar, but it went just the same. Pearl-clutching, Crowley called it. He licked his lips. 

“Someone from this congregation? Oh, but things seemed to be going so well here, and I’ve not sensed any evil.” 

“It’s you, Aziraphale.” Another voice said, the same chipper delivery, only a slightly different timbre. 

“You are growing too close to the mortals.” Added another.

“And further from Her.” Yet another said. 

Aziraphale looked from face to face, horrified.

He could feel his face doing the most peculiar thing– it grew hot, then cold, then prickled as if he were being lightly stabbed repeatedly with pins. It was horribly unpleasant, but not enough to distract from the accusations being leveled at him. 

“I think there’s been some mistake.” He managed to squeak out. “I am as close to Her as I was in Eden– She even spoke to me directly, then. Surely She hasn’t grown… displeased with me, since?”

Though of course he had to wonder. 

He liked humans well enough– loved them, even, as She intended. He loved what they did and what they made, loved their choices, and the fact that they were allowed to make those choices, whether for good or otherwise. 

He loved their clothing and their music and their food– especially their food! But he didn’t see how any of that should take away from his love for Her. 

“Her love does not waver.” One of them said, and Aziraphale didn’t turn his head fast enough to see which.

“Yours, though… Your love has turned elsewhere.” 

“Do you suppose the humans love you in return?” This voice was less genial, colder, but delivered with that same infuriating chirp. 

“Or perhaps it is one human in particular.”

“Yes, your love seems focused, when it is aimed away from Her.” 

Aziraphale tried to imagine what human they could mean– and blanched. Because there was no one special human in his life. But there was one demon. And of course, and love he felt for Crowley would be love that did not go to Her– it was not for one of Her creatures. Not anymore, at least. 

He swallowed. 

“I… was under the impression I was meant to love humans. Clearly I’ve… gone about it somewhat wrong footedly.” 

“You were as she intended you to be, once.” One of them informed him. 

“No more.” The voices jumped around, in range and in directionality, until he almost wasn’t certain how many virtues he actually spoke to. There were five faces in front of him, but likely a dozen or more in the room. 

Damn. 

“I– I don’t understand,” he stammered out, attempting to find a way to defuse the situation.

“You have grown weak.”

“Plump.”

“Greedy.”

“Slothful.” 

“Vain.” 

“Amorous.”

“And so we ask again: do you suppose the one you love loves you in return?”

Aziraphale swallowed and looked downwards. 

Demons didn’t love. Perhaps couldn’t. 

“No.” He answered quietly.

“Their love could never measure against Hers, anyway.” One voice soothed, as if it meant to comfort him. But another broke in, colder again. 

“And what have you done to deserve Her love?” 

Aziraphale looked up again, cheeks burning. 

“Her love is unconditional! That’s rather the point.” 

“But you haven’t been grateful, have you?”

“You haven’t returned Her love.”

“You haven’t shown Her the loyalty She deserves from you.” 

Aziraphale gasped. 

“How dare you? I–”

“Prideful.” One of them broke in. 

Aziraphale bit his tongue and swallowed the words he’d intended to say, instead asking, 

“What is it that you want me to do?”

“Confess your failures.” They spoke in unison, the power of all of their voices combined ringing in a way that had nothing to do with volume.. “Receive pardon from us. And recommit yourself to Her Holy Cause.”

“I- I am committed. I have been here for thousands of years, never once abandoning my post. If that isn’t loyalty–”

“You have become lax.”

“Bad at your job.”

“Working hard, or hardly working?” 

“This world is so full of sin.”

“Which you were meant to curtail.”

“Hell’s temptations run rampant.”

“And you have fallen prey to some of them.” 

“Repent.” 

Aziraphale swallowed. His eyes and face stung, and his chest felt tight, the knowledge that this room held who knew how many of the host– theoretically his inferiors, but sent to deliver this message of his deficiency. Which meant that others had to know. 

Higher ups, who had sent him. Had they had to have a meeting about it?  
How many hands had the paperwork passed through?

How many of them knew? 

All of heaven, perhaps. 

Maybe She even believed it. 

And they were right. He was… he’d become a bad angel. 

“I will do better.” He swore, though the words were faint. 

“You will.” The voices echoed together, strong where he wasn’t.

“I have become… slothful, and, and vain, and inconsistent with my attentions.” Aziraphale was working hard now not to cry and he wanted, suddenly, nothing more than for the ground to swallow him up.

Although– no, not that. 

God, he should be grateful he wasn’t falling. 

How had he supposed he would get away with this, just skating on by? The Agreement–

He cut that thought short, just to be safe. Just in case they could sense his thoughts. 

“No more.” He whispered. “Enough, I’ll– I’ll make amends. I swear it.” 

“See that you do.” They sounded horribly smug, and Aziraphale felt as they vanished. He felt very much alone, and as much as that should have been a relief, he felt, too, incredibly bereft. 

He sank to his knees in the empty choir loft, rested his arm and his head on one of the seats, and sobbed.


	26. Abandoned

Heaven– or God– it was difficult to tell which, with all the bureaucracy– liked to test those who served them. Of course, with God that was well known, what with the flood and the savior and the various choices placed before people– humans, that was. But Angels… they were meant not to have choices, or opinions. Meant to be perfectly obedient.  
And Aziraphale _was_. At least… sort of. To the letter, if not the holy spirit of the thing.

He thwarted wiles, in that they never came to fruition, and he performed minor miracles– things to ease burdens and make life easier for those around him, as well as himself, of course.

All in all, he was a positive force on Earth, and he was keeping Crowley’s mischief to the minimum, which was pretty much the entirety of his job description these days.

And yet. 

  
And yet he came home from lunch one day to discover a note on his desk, a rolled bit of parchment, tied round with a blue and gold ribbon. A Message from Upstairs.  
His heart sank, and he told himself firmly that hearing from Heaven should not evoke dread, or a guilty conscience. Though of course, it did both.

To compensate for that, he did what he did best and pulled the scroll open, reading avidly.

It was… not so rude as it might have been, he supposed. He’d been expecting it for a while, ever since the Virtues had appeared. He was surprised it had appeared so soon, though; Heaven was not known for its timeliness, as a whole.  
Then again, there was a reason Gabriel had been the one sent to tell Mary about the child she bore, just as there was a reason his was the signature on this scroll.

He just delighted in being the bearer of bad news.

No, that was ungracious; Gabriel was _good at explaining things_.

Which was why, Aziraphale reasoned, collapsing back into his seat, he felt so weak now.  
His misuse, or overuse, of miracles had been noted. He’d been warned. And he had begun abusing them again, and so Heaven was relieving him of the ability. They had made the decision to make him…  
Human.

It was, he supposed, the best he could have hoped for. Better than capital F Falling.

But that meant… he was, suddenly, dying. And there was nothing he could do. Better than growing an animal on his head, better than a lake of fire and Satan and… oh, Crowley.

Bad enough that heaven was abandoning Aziraphale like this. But the thought that he would, in turn, abandon Crowley… and sometime not too far off from now.  
How old was this body? Not in reality, but… if he were given the years commensurate to his corporation’s appearance… he had what? Twenty years left? Thirty?  
He should have paid more attention to how long humans lived these days.

He pinched his fingers and pulled down towards the ancient computer, intending to look it up, but, of course, nothing. No reaction.  
He’d been cut off.

He swallowed and stood unsteadily.  
He should… tell Crowley. Surely he deserved to know, deserved to have as much time to prepare himself as– oh, but it was so cruel, that Aziraphale’s bad behavior would affect him too. Aziraphale didn’t think he was flattering himself when he thought they’d become… well, close. Friendlier, of late.  
Friends, even, though he’d deny it if pressed, specifically to avoid taking Crowley down with him if– when– he was caught.

Only, he hadn’t been, had he?

He paused, hand resting on his phone, and bit his lip.  
If they knew, surely this would be more painful, more of an immediate execution, rather than a drawn out… what was this? Forced retirement?

And if he called Crowley now– were they watching?

_Did he have to spend what little of his life was left, avoiding the person who mattered most, to protect him?_

That seemed… oh, it was incredibly cruel. Exactly the sort of thing that Gabriel would have delighted in, if he were here, if he were watching, if there was even the slightest chance that he knew.  
But he couldn’t possibly. And so Aziraphale would have to keep it that way.

And he might very well have succeeded, had Crowley not simply decided to pop by.

“Hey Angel,” he greeted, all fashionably tight clothes and loose limbs.

“The demon Crowley.” Aziraphale hastened to say, almost certain he was being watched. If any day was the day for it, it would be this one. “Come to gloat then, have you?”

Crowley, for his part, drew up short, his posture going more on edge, his words coming out more cautiously.  
“You know me. Gloating’s part of the game. So? What’m I gloating over this time?”

Aziraphale’s breathing hitched and he restrained the noise that wanted to come out of his throat, but only barely.  
He handed the scroll to Crowley silently, then flicked his gaze towards the ceiling, hoping that it communicated what he intended it to.  
“It seems… you’ve won. At least until they send someone else to thwart you.”  
He paused for effect, before adding, “If you’re going to kill me, old enemy, I hope you’ll make it quick.”

Crowley’s head snapped up at that and he looked horrified.

“Does this make you one of us then?” He asked, eyes very obviously searching Aziraphale for any sign of distress. “Bad form, taking out someone on your own side.”  
It was, obviously, both a criticism of heaven and a very real concern that he had.

Aziraphale shook his head.  
“We are not on the same side. I am no creature of hell.”

Crowley relaxed a little at that, and handed the scroll back over.

“Aziraphale, I–” He cut himself off as Aziraphale rolled his eyes skyward and tilted his chin in that direction as well, just to really drive home the point.  
“Poor Angel.” Crowley said instead, putting on his big scary demon voice. “Abandoned by heaven and all alone. What’s to become of you? Perhaps I should make you come with me, let you witness what will happen to the world now you aren’t able to stop me.”

By which, Aziraphale reasoned, Crowley likely meant, _would you like some lunch_?

“No.” He said firmly, and then, remembering the pretense, added, “Please, if I am no longer an angel, if I am no longer a threat to you… perhaps you should just leave.” He hoped his face said enough.

Crowley needed to be safe, needed to begin planning for what he’d do when Aziraphale’s replacement arrived, and they cared more about smiting him than lunches and wines and any hope of an Arrangement was dashed.

“What a shame. I have so many plans that would have been a delight to struggle against you for, but…” Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale blanched.  
“I suppose they’ll just be wildly successful now. All those valuable souls to Satan, just because you– what, used a miracle to tie your shoes or something?”

Aziraphale felt himself flushing, felt the shame welling up, and his eyes following suit.  
“Crowley, please…” He began, but was stopped, startled, when a beam of heavenly light appeared, and a new scroll manifested itself on his desk.

Crowley snatched it up, ripped it open, gave it a quick read, and then, in a performance worthy of the melodramas, clapped a hand to his brow as he passed it to Aziraphale.  
“Oh no, I’ve spoken too soon. I’ve doomed all of my hard work, my natural enemy is returned to me.”

Numbly, Aziraphale took the letter and read it, eyes widening as he understood what Crowley had done.

He had been given his miracles back, his status as an angel and the defender of Earth restored… but Aziraphale wouldn’t forget how close he came to having been abandoned. He had been, in fact, and there was a part of his chest that remained cold and numb, because of it.

Crowley, however, left the shop, still lamenting the untimely loss of his good work, then popped up behind the glass window of the closed door, and flashed Aziraphale a double thumbs up.

Aziraphale looked up at heaven to give his thanks, but he hoped Crowley knew it was really for him.


	27. Ransom

What Hell knows, Heaven comes to realize with some eventuality. 

That is to say, Aziraphale and Crowley should have been better prepared for Heaven to come after the children, since even Hell had realized they cared for young Warlock. 

The photos they left, though, were of both Warlock and Adam, restrained and afraid looking, somewhere overly bright and polished. 

“Fuck. Aziraphale, that’s– they took them to _Heaven_. Humans– living humans– aren’t supposed to be there. Their bodies…” Crowley was quietly horrified, and Aziraphale nodded slowly. 

“And yours as well. I’ll have to go and see what it is that Heaven wants. They’re obviously after something, or this wouldn’t be a ransom, it’d be an execution.”

“I’m not letting you go alone. Not again.” Crowley swore, taking him carefully by the shoulder. 

“And I’m not letting you keep hurting yourself to take care of everyone else!” Aziraphale replied hotly. 

“Maybe it’s not necessssary.” Crowley told him, his shape dissolving and elongating, the rest of his body following the direction of his arm until he was coiled up across Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Now you can threaten the usssssse of holy fire all you want.” He added, tongue flicking out to strike Aziraphale’s ear as his mouth formed words it was uniquely unsuited to. 

“Hm.” Aziraphale said, but didn’t lay voice to his worry that contact with heaven was only the largest of Crowley’s injuries while there– not the scope of them. Still, he was selfishly glad not to have to do this alone. 

Things were better. He was better. It’d been a few years; the boys in the photos had grown into young men, not quite adults, but well on their way. Which meant that it would be much harder to explain all of this away, once they’d saved them.

If they did. 

Aziraphale considered building a circle and attempting to go the direct route, but he doubted they would answer him. And so, instead, he popped them across town to the escalators that would take them up to Heaven. 

He stepped on the lowest step, carefully ignoring the escalator going down, though he couldn’t quite fully suppress the shudder. 

Likewise, the escalator shuddered, and ground to a halt. 

Aziraphale’s immediate thought was that he was tainted by his time in Hell. Not quite fallen, but hardly pure any longer.

“Oh. I suppose… I am less welcome than even I expected.” Aziraphale said softly, his resolve already firming as he considered the options. 

“Or it doessn’t like me.” Crowley added. “To the right– we can both usse the elevator.”

That, at least, had been made for both demonic and angelic presences, and didn’t refuse to work. 

Aziraphale stepped out into Heaven, and he felt the way Crowley tightened his coils, unable to hide his discomfort in this form. 

Aziraphale tutted. 

“Let me–” he reached up and tapped Crowley’s snout, sending a wave of protection over him, aiming to dampen the overwhelming goodness of Heaven. 

“Thanksssss.” Crowley hisspered, and it sounded almost like a sigh of relief. Wordlessly, Aziraphale stroked him in response. 

But they couldn’t stop. Heaven was vast, and they needed to find the boys before it was too late. 

Fortunately, Aziraphale had a feeling he knew where to start. 

When they barged into Gabriel’s office, he was mid sentence.

“–ch one of you was raised by an angel and a demon?” He demanded, and Adam and Warlock looked to one another, then back to Gabriel, then to the figures in the doorway.

“Aziraphale!” they both said, almost in unison, and Gabriel straightened himself out and began to stride forward. 

Only, Crowley unwound himself and reclaimed his limbs before he hit the floor, Aziraphale’s protection allowing him to stand tall against Gabriel’s approach. 

“Shut up.” He hissed at Gabriel, his teeth longer than they should be. “We’ve killed demons together– I’d be delighted to add an archangel to the lissssssst.”

Gabriel, for once, was stricken silent, and Aziraphale had hurried over to begin working on Adam’s bonds. 

“Oh, hey Nanny.” Warlock greeted calmly. Crowley rolled his eyes and sent an altogether too fond look in Warlock’s direction. 

“Wait– take the spare.” Gabriel said, gesturing at Warlock. “That’s all I needed to know. We’re ransoming the real antichrist back to Hell– trading him out for a less defective model.” Gabriel held his hand out, as if he expected Adam to take it. 

Adam, however, looked at him like he was crazy.

“I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.” He told him, with all the sass that a human teenager was possessed of. 

“What Adam _means to say_,” Aziraphale cut in, quickly undoing Warlock’s bindings, “Is that when he stopped the apocalypse, he did so by renouncing his abilities. He is no more the son of Satan than you are, now. And as such, not much of a bargaining chip for ransom.” 

Gabriel frowned. 

“No power at all? Just— nada?” 

Crowley snorted.

“If he had _any_, do you think you’d still be here? Dumb plan, kidnapping the antichrist.” 

“Worse plan? Kidnapping two anti-anti-christs.” Warlock added, opening his palms towards the ground and then clenching his fists and hauling upwards. 

Gabriel was thrown into the chair he’d just vacated, and the chains that bound him were sizzling slightly. 

Aziraphale, Crowley, and Adam just stared. 

“What?” Warlock asked, only a little smug. “You spent years telling me I’d have powers. We all believed it. That’s how miracles work, right?” 

Aziraphale was suddenly very glad that they’d had some time to talk to Warlock after Hastur had brought him by for a visit.

This changed everything.


	28. Beaten

They’d got the jump on him, as the saying went. 

Rightly rude of them, but then, he doubted there was a polite way of ‘roughing’ someone up. 

Initially, he’d thought it was demons, hellions, some occult force that had decided to move on the only angelic being constantly stationed on Earth. In fact, he was so busy trying to sense how powerful the occult forces were, that he failed to fight back. 

It was enough of an opening that it allowed them to hit him in the back of the shoulders with double fists, an area twice as sensitive on an angel as it was on a human, at least. 

He crashed to the floor with a whimper, and the one who had hit him laughed. 

“_This_ fockin’ ninny’s th’ one been driving off your boys?” He asked the other incredulously, and Aziraphale understood suddenly. 

This was about the shop, and the men who kept offering, steadily more aggressively, to purchase it. 

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the men– only three of them, which was good odds for him. 

“Now see here–” he began, but the one who was in charge– he assumed, given the ones he’d sent off before had been ‘his’ boys– was obviously not in a seeing here mood. Instead, he landed a swift kick to Aziraphale’s belly. 

“You’ve been playing games with us long enough. I don’t want any of your hoodoo bullshit– just an agreement to fork over the paperwork, and clear out. We’ll pay you, even– bout half what the place is worth. And that’s plenty generous, considering what you’ve done.”

“What have I–?” Aziraphale began, but the first man, who’d knocked him down, put a foot on his chest and leaned on it. 

“That didn’t sound much like an agreement to me.” He said mildly, and Aziraphale, tired of this farce, took hold of his foot and pushed it up, revealing his strength to be far greater than they’d expected. 

Big and angry yanked his foot away, shaken.

“The _fuck_?” He asked, looking around at the others, but when Azirapahel made to sit up, he reversed the movement and slammed his foot into his face. 

Aziraphale felt his head hit the floor and his nose shatter, and he groaned, reaching for it. 

“_Enough_.” The voice was loud, sudden, and angry, and all the light seemed to bleed out of the place as a great black snake that hadn’t been there a moment before filled the room.

“Out.” 

It commanded, and the two who were smart started scurrying over its mass to reach the door. The third, though, the big and angry one with the bad attitude, pulled out his gun. 

“Fuck this!” He said, firing off a round. 

Crowley acted instantly, putting himself squarely in front of the gun and around the man, catching him in a coil and squeezing. 

“You _hurt_ him.” Crowley hissed, fangs long and wicked, eyes all but glowing with anger. The big man whimpered. “You won’t hurt anyone ever again.” He finished solemnly, and tugged until there was a nasty sounding crack, and the bad man howled. 

Crowley whisked what was left of the man outside, then calmly came back in as a man-shaped being, closed and locked the shop door, and vanished the gun that had fallen to the floor in all of the drama. 

“Alright there, Angel?” He asked, fingering the already healing patch of skin where the bullet had gone into him. 

It’d been a long time since anyone thought to bless their weapons, and Aziraphale was grateful for that, at least. 

“I am, yes. Thank you. I had it under control, though.”

“Oh, yeah, right, I saw that.” Crowley said, gesticulating wildly. He paused though, and went still. 

“Your nose is still bleeding, Aziraphale.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale said, climbing stiffly to his feet. 

Everything hurt, and he couldn’t help but think that it was well deserved. 

Some guardian he was, some _angel_, couldn’t keep himself or his home safe from three humans. 

“Oh come on, none of that.” Crowley spoke more gently now, following him into the kitchenette. 

“What.” Aziraphale snapped, or would have, if his nose wasn’t making all of his speech fairly obtuse. 

“Just heal up. You don’t deserve to suffer. It was just some dumb thugs.”

“Yes, and I ought to have managed it better.” 

“Sure.” Crowley shrugged. “And you will next time. For now, though, it’s _over_. Stop letting them keep hurting you– you’re giving them more credit than they’re worth.” 

Aziraphale glared at him over the top of the damp dishcloth that he was pressing to his face. 

“They aren’t hurting me, _I am_.” He said pointedly. 

Crowley snorted. 

“Then that’s twice as dumb. You didn’t hurt them, who made the choice to hurt an innocent man in his home, but you’ll hurt the victim? Not particularly angelic of you.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin, but was well aware that he didn’t have much of an argument to offer. 

Crowley took his silence for the pig headedness it was, and clucked his tongue. 

“Either heal yourself up, or I’ll heal you, and we’ll both suffer for it. And I already got shot for you tonight.”

That did it– the guilt was all it took, and Aziraphale pulled some Heavenly comfort down onto himself, wrapping it around his corporation to heal the bruises and straighten and mend his nose. 

He sighed.

“Thank you again for that. Are you… are you quite alright, my dear? No hidden surprises with that bullet, were there?”

“Nah. Just a plain old bullet. But you know what’d make it all better?” 

“Wine or whiskey?” Aziraphale asked, settling into something a little closer to normal with a great rush of relief. 

“What’ve you got?” Crowley asked, and their usual banter began, the fight and Aziraphale’s beating fading into a dull throb at the back of both of their minds.


	29. Numb

The thing about being in control of your body entirely, down to the smallest minutiae, was that it meant you could turn things on and off at will. 

Now, this came in incredibly handy, sometimes– such refusing to put in the Effort necessary to respond to certain temptations and situations. That was handy enough to be worth mentioning, for certain. 

Equally handy was the ability to turn off the way his muscles ought to be seizing and shaking, the way he should be well on his way to freezing to death. In fact, he was able to moderate his internal temperature, and hike it up enough to fend off the worst of the cold, and to better warm the snake shaped demon that was currently curled up against his chest, under his shirt. 

Poor, dear idiot that he was, Crowley had forgotten to take into account that sinking the ship he was on would, of course, result in a wet plunge at the end. And for all that he could have spread his wings and gone mostly unnoticed against the dark of the night sky, he’d chosen instead to stay, knowing that Aziraphale refused to abandon the humans that were left.

Aziraphale was doing his best not to hold the loss of life against him; Crowley had been given very specific orders– ones it would be difficult to wiggle out of, and even Heaven had commanded that Aziraphale not stop what was intended to happen. 

For whatever ineffable reason, tonight was meant to end in tragedy for the majority of the lives aboard. 

The only consolation was that he was allowed to help as many as he could, and he did. Every escape, every life that he helped preserve, was a small miracle. And now it was over. Or nearly. The noises of death had died down, thank God, and now there was only soft sobs, chattering teeth, whispered prayers, and anxious whimpers.

The humans were uncomfortable and afraid, mourning and in shock, and it was a lot to process. 

Aziraphale might not feel the cold the way they did, but he felt all of their emotions, batting up against his mind much the way the waves struck the sides of their pitiful little boat as they drifted on the sea, waiting for rescue. 

Praying, fervently, in several languages for it. 

He knew it was coming. He’d made sure of that. And now there was nothing for it but to wait, and keep Crowley warm. 

His mind had gone blessedly, blissfully blank, the hubbub of horror drown out in the numbness that was overtaking him. 

It had been entirely too long of a voyage already. 

Aziraphale just wanted to go home, dry out his socks, lay Crowley out on the loveseat, and stoke the fire into a beautiful, roaring behemoth of light and heat. 

He’d be glad for the chance to defrost the clothing he wore and the minor discomfort that slipped through the clenched fist of his control. 

But he was grateful for the emotional numbness. That could stick around for a while. 

He had a feeling he’d be quite the mess when it faded.


	30. Recovery

“Hey, uh, Mister Aziraphale? Can I talk to you? About– miracles?” Adam was hesitant, more so than Aziraphale would have expected, but polite, too, and the combination made his heart twinge in anticipation.

“Of course, my boy, what is it?”

“Have you– do you ever… not use them for a while? Or. I don’t suppose it’s quite the same but… I have a little left in me. I know I do, little things happen sometimes, stuff that makes life easier, the sort of stuff where most people would just think oh he’s lucky, but…” Adam trailed off, glancing over to where Warlock and Crowley were in the next room over, Crowley showing Warlock a few tricks and helping teach him how better to control his power. 

“I’ve… had my miracles turned off temporarily in the past, yes. Or run out of energy after doing too many. Though I think Crowley’s done that more often than I have. What about it?” He urged, trying to sound kind and encouraging. 

“I don’t know.” Adam sounded sullen. “It’s dumb, I’m sure but… I just, sometimes I think that I’m… missing something, you know? Like I got rid of some important part of me. That’s all.” 

Aziraphale hummed, turning the words over. 

“Well, it was a part of you– had been since birth, and you effectively shut it off before your abilities even matured fully. But as you said, it isn’t completely gone…”

Still, it made Aziraphale somewhat squeamish, thinking about the handful of years that had passed since. 

“Is it… How much would you say it’s affecting you?” He asked, wondering if it mightn’t be kinder to amend the poor boy’s memories, so he forgot he ever had powers. 

“I forget about it, a lot of the time. But sometimes things will happen and it’s like… a reflex. Like I’m always reaching for something that’s not there, or always expecting there to be one more step on the staircase, only–” He spread his hands, then sighed. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. I made my choice, and it was the right one at the time. We just have to live with those.”

“I mean, y’did save the world.” Crowley said, from his position leaning against the doorframe. Warlock stood beside him, head tilted and eyes locked on Adam. 

“You’re the one that demon Aziraphale killed was looking for.” Warlock said slowly, as realization dawned. 

Aziraphale licked his lips, and nodded. 

“You were born the same day, and mixed up at birth. When we worked for your family, we thought we were raising the anti-Christ– thought you were Adam. Believed it, in fact, so much so that it seems we gave you some of those powers. But you must know, now that Heaven and Hell both know about this, which is almost assured at this point, they’ll likely come after you again.”

“Adam told those warmongering dicks to fuck right off, and kept them from killing everyone in the world, and then some. They might make good offers, but you have to remember, when I say everything, it would be _everything_.” Crowley spoke seriously. 

“And if they can’t pick fights using us, then what?” Adam asked.

“Then… they probably try to pick a fight, all of them against everyone here.”

“Then we’ll need to be ready.” Warlock said decisively. “Adam– do you want to join me on the anti-apocolypse team?”

Adam frowned.

“Pretty sure I _started_ that team.” He said, and Warlock rolled his eyes. 

“Right, but do you want to sign back up, powers and all?” 

Adam looked to the two adult-shaped beings in the room.

“We won’t make that decision for you.” Aziraphale said gently. “That’s up to you.” 

“You said it felt like you’re missing something, some part of you. Crowley showed me how to heal stuff, so I figure it can’t be that different.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but Crowley made a little silencing hand gesture. 

“You mean I can just… have it back. The whatever I pulled out of me, you can heal it?”

“Think of it as a recovery of sorts.” Warlock offered. “You lost something, and we’re restoring it.” 

“Yeah.” Adam decided, standing and lifting his chin. “All right, I’m in. Can’t hurt to try at least.” 

Warlock grinned and reached one hand down towards the floor and the other hand up into the sky, grabbed great big handfuls of nothing, and slammed them together in a graceful arc that ended pointed directly at Adam. 

Adam was flung upwards and backwards, and Aziraphale braced for the horrible sound of impact, but it didn’t come. Instead, Adam stayed where he was, a solid three feet off the ground, the tips of his unruly hair brushing the ceiling. 

And he glowed, more angelic than demonic, though his eyes were, for the briefest moment, quite red. 

“Was that–” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale shook his head. 

“You and I believed Warlock’s power into being together. He’s not Occult or Divine– he’s both. And now Adam is, too.”

“More importantly, we’re both gonna help take care of the world.” Adam said, his feet returning to the ground and the glow and odd coloration fading. 

“Maybe after a nap?” Warlock suggested, yawning behind his hand, and Crowley tutted at him, much as he’d done for years as his nanny. 

“All those miracles wore you out, hm? Alright, come this way, I’ll tuck you in.” The two of them wandered off, their darker clothing matching the aesthetic of the flat entirely too well, and Aziraphale had an inkling that, when Warlock was old enough, he may end up taking the lease over here. He certainly couldn’t imagine anyone else as well suited to the place.

“And you, Adam? Aziraphale asked. “Tired?” 

“I think, if you don’t mind, I’d rather stay up and talk to you more about how this works. If you’re willing to teach me, I mean.”

He was back to being a shy, polite boy, and Aziraphale smiled, proud of both of their godsons for the choices they’d made that day. 

“I don’t mind at all. Let’s see if we can’t make some hot chocolate in this ghost of a kitchen, and we’ll go from there. How’s that sound?”

Adam burst into a glorious smile.

“Brilliant!” He said, enthusiastic as anything. 

And Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that he really had recovered something. 

Crowley rejoined them, sneaking up to hug Aziraphale from behind. 

Things had been better lately, and he didn’t even jump. 

“Well, we’re in for it now,” Crowley muttered softly into the angel’s neck.

“What d’you mean? Heaven?” Aziraphale guessed, anxiety curling in his stomach. 

“That, eventually, but more pressingly– two teenagers with powers, loose in England.”

Aziraphale blanched.

“Good lord.” 


	31. Embrace

Crowley would have liked to say he didn’t know how long it had been before (or since) the first time. 

But in all honesty, he’d committed it to memory, and revisited it often. 

The rains had receded, and they had smuggled the children off the ark much easier than they had smuggled them on. 

Crawly went on ahead to find a small village, or what was left of it. 

He went through it carefully and cleaned away any sign of the dead. Left it empty and sodden and ready to become home to their little tribe. 

Together, he and Aziraphale had led them here, miracling the small houses together to make a bigger one, one where they could care for all these kids. 

The fields nearby were drowned, the stalks and crops broken and mush from the weight of the water they’d been under. But the soil itself was soft and rich, and there would be no easier time to clear the land and start fresh. 

  
Crawly instructed Aziraphale and the few of them that were old enough to help on what to do, and soon there was a pile of dead plant matter off to the side, and a well tilled field of mud, waiting to receive seeds. 

Crawly nodded, pleased with their work, and took the litter of littles back with him to start dinner and water heating for baths for their heros. 

Once everyone was clean and fed, new clothing miracled into existence for the handful that had experienced a growth spurt over the last month or so, and everyone drowsy and readying themselves for bed, Aziraphale crept closer, as he had done more and more frequently of late. 

“We did it,” He said softly. “Saved them.” 

Crawly hummed. 

“We’ll help them set up this place to keep them fed, and safe. Wait a while, and maybe we’ll be able to trade some of the crops that grow here for some of the offspring of those animals of Noah’s. Once they’re grown, or most of them are, we’ll be able to go back our separate ways, to our respective duties, but… For now, it looks like this is home.”

Crawly glanced at the angel from the corner of his eye, then frowned suddenly. 

“Unless this is you trying to say goodbye.” 

He realized that Aziraphale could. He trusted by now that Crawly wouldn’t hurt them. Or at least, he hoped he did. 

But the children loved him, and his miracles and his performances… and Crawly had hoped– 

Oh, not that it mattered. 

But Aziraphale was smiling. 

“I was going to ask if you intended to stay too.” He said softly, and Crawly’s demonic heart leapt. 

“Obviously. Yeah. Of course.” He tried to make it sound offhand, as if he simply had nothing better to do, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale said, and flung his arms around the demon. 

It was a strange feeling, welcome and warm and soft, like the hugs he got from the children, but… more. And also less– because it was, he knew, for the childrens’ sakes, and not really for him. Still, he could tell he was going to crave this the moment it ended. 

Crawly had been grateful over and over that Aziraphale had shown him how to heal those ribs, but never more grateful than now. 

This was so nice, so much more than he’d expected, that he didn’t know what he would have done if it had hurt, too. 

In fact, he hardly knew what to do now, and his panicking demonic mind did the only thing it could think of– he lost concentration and reverted to the form he’d been in when he first saw the angel. 

He nearly slid out of Aziraphale’s grip and to the floor, surprised as he was, but Crawly had other ideas, and wrapped himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders, somehow more comfortable with the embrace when he was winding himself around him, rather than the other way around.

Aziraphale relaxed into it, and even reached up to slide a hand over the bit of Crawly that was draped under his chin. 

“You ridiculous thing, you.” Aziraphale said, and he could feel the wave of fondness coming off of him. 

That brief hold, not repeated again for several thousand years, had carried Crawly over through many a lonely decade, and over several difficult jobs. 

And now he could have it whenever he liked. As much and as often as he liked. 

And he didn’t even turn into a snake in response to those hugs anymore. 

Most of the time.


End file.
